


all the time

by lightfighter



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Time Traveler's Wife Fusion, F/F, eve may be a hot mess but she is also a time-traveling hot mess, red thread of fate really tying these two idiots across time and space y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:42:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25483372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightfighter/pseuds/lightfighter
Summary: All things considered, maybe Eve shouldn’t be surprised that, on top of everything else, she’s a time-traveler. Actually, “time-traveler” is generous; it conveys zany adventure through time and space and, more importantly, agency, like she’s actually choosing when and where she’ll drop out of her timeline into a different one entirely and not just shopping in New Malden for instant tteokbokki one moment and appearing naked in some random English field in 1985 the next with nothing but sheep for company.Repeatedly being dropped into the time and presence of a possibly psychopathic, very angry and also, yes, very attractive Russian girl is just an added bonus.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 172
Kudos: 385





	1. Prelude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to write KE fic for ages, but turns out writing these characters is, um, hard. Hopefully I won't be too far off the mark.
> 
> Also, this now marks the third fandom I've written a Time Traveler's Wife AU for. I'm not sure if this is impressive or in fact deeply alarming. We'll table it for now.
> 
> I tweaked their ages a bit to make the time stuff more manageable. Eve is ten years older than Villanelle here, 35 in 2018 to V's 25.

All things considered, maybe Eve shouldn’t be surprised that, on top of everything else, she’s a time-traveler. Actually, “time-traveler” is generous; it conveys zany adventure through time and space and, more importantly, _agency_ , like she’s actually choosing when and where she’ll drop out of her timeline into a different one entirely and not just shopping in New Malden for instant tteokbokki one moment and appearing naked in some random English field in 1985 the next with nothing but sheep for company.

But it _does_ track. She is not, strictly speaking, the most organized person. Barely organized chaos is the generous phrasing, “desperately needing to get her shit together” is the less so. Constantly racing to catch the bus, to make it to the office on time (or at least somewhere in the realm of “on time”), to not get too absorbed in her work and be an at least somewhat dialed-in presence in her marriage — and she’s already failed in that regard, hasn’t she, choosing to keep poring over her files at her desk one too many times over the endless series of dinner parties and bridge club meetings and chicken coop cleanings that seemed to constitute her relationship with Niko, and ultimately ended it. The uncontrollable time-travel, a truly bizarre twist of genetic fate, was just the icing on that shambles of a cake. 

Her life is a barely controlled disaster on the best days, it seems to her. So why _wouldn’t_ she have trouble keeping to her assigned time period on top of everything else? 

The condition (and it _is_ a condition, definitely not the superpower movies and sci-fi books try to make it out to be) has already defined so much of her life. Few can understand it, if they even believe it; Niko seemed suspended between irritated skepticism and worry for her mental state for most of their time together, which still drives her up the wall considering _she’s literally visited him in the past_. Her mother has always preferred to just...pretend it isn’t happening, which is as lovely as it sounds and has left a lasting strain on their relationship. 

Her dad, bless him, had been one of the few who had really made an effort to understand, but then had, well, died. Since then it’s just been Bill, and lately Elena and Kenny, who have made the cut and earned the truth about her sudden absences and random failures to turn up for prearranged plans — it’s usually vastly preferable to just come off as scatterbrained and flaky in everything but work, as that carries the twin benefits of being not being too far off from the truth and also not getting her hauled off to an asylum or some kind of illicit government research facility (which, considering she _works_ for the government, strikes her as a very real possibility). 

Elena even seems to find it _cool_ , which is not a word Eve would use but is at least a refreshingly new take on the matter. 

(Even if it did take several strongly-worded conversations to convince her that Eve cannot, in fact, take Elena with her (“I can barely take myself”), kill Hitler (“I can’t control where or when I go, it’s only during my own life span, and I’m not sure that I could alter history like that anyway”) or even kill Frank (“Elena, for the love of god, you don’t even need time-travel for that”).)

But anyway. She’s finally learned, thirty-five years in, a move to the UK, semi-successful career in government intelligence, and failed marriage under her belt, to somewhat manage this...quirk, and roll with the punches it deals out, developing, through hard-won experience, strategies to survive every possible time and location it may drop her in, be it an abandoned Connecticut parking garage or very much _not_ abandoned London high street, regardless of the year. Even if that means not being above the odd act of petty theft or, you know, grand theft auto, when the need arises. 

(Whatever. Morality is relative. And anyway, the condition has taught her a great deal about herself; chiefly, that she’s not a very nice lady, when it suits her. 

And also that she’ll always disappear back to her own time eventually, and sometimes the thrill of watching cops’ aghast faces as she literally fades away in the back of their squad car — leaving nothing but the clothing she got caught stealing and one hell of a story about the time they arrested a ghost back in ‘84 — makes it all worth it.) 

So maybe the time-travel quirk isn’t so strange or unexpected. Why should the fact that she starts visiting a possibly psychopathic Russian girl with a propensity for violence and unfairly distracting looks be any different?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a lil intro to set the stage a bit. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a reminder: ages have been adjusted to make the time stuff more manageable. Eve is ten years older than Villanelle here, 35 in 2018 to V's 25.
> 
> There will now be a part three. I can be exceedingly long-winded, it turns out.

**Villanelle is 18, Eve is 35**

It has been, Eve reflects, laying on the couch in the somewhat cramped apartment she moved into post-Niko, a really shit week. 

She has, in short order: lost her charge, gotten four people killed, gotten fired, and taken her boss down with her. And all she has to show for it is some sort of dodgy sounding spy meeting with Carolyn Fucking Martens this Thursday. A _breakfast_ meeting, no less. Some sort of offer. A job interview?

Eve can admit that she’s intrigued. Maybe even excited. Her whole career at MI5 was spent running into closed doors and red tape and flatly disinterested mid level management who would really rather she kept her focus on safe houses and keeping track of protected witnesses and not so much on conspiracy theories and women hitmen. Now, someone actually seems interested in what she has to say, what she _thinks_. Someone at _MI6_. 

Suck it, Frank. Dickswab didn’t come close to describing it.

She only wishes it didn’t come at the price of Kasia Molkovska’s life. (The feeling of Kasia’s blood running over Eve’s hands as she desperately tried to apply pressure to the woman’s slashed throat, hot and viscous, is still fresh in her mind.) 

It was the assassin. Obviously. The one who is quickly taking up every spare bit of space in Eve’s thoughts. Eve can’t believe they were in the same building, that she _barely_ missed her. Still can’t wrap her head around how quickly the assassin wreaked so much chaos; one moment, Kasia was secure and stable in her room, nurses and security detail present, and the next, every last one of them was gruesomely dead or very nearly there.

The only thing that had changed between one set of circumstances and the next was the briefest trip to the bathroom. A quick hair check. A semi-strange interaction with a delicately-featured nurse. And that was it — three minutes away at most. 

It isn’t lost on Eve that had she not left, she would very probably have been left to the same fate as Kasia and the rest. Been in the same room as this killer, been able to inspect her for however many fleeting seconds she would’ve had.

She doesn’t examine the odd blend of thrill and dread and fear and excitement that runs down her back at the thought too closely.

But anyway. She still has a few days to kill until breakfast with Carolyn Martens, and has already reviewed the files she kept at home more times than she cares to remember — they’re fanned out on the floor by the couch even now. _Damn_ those MI5 fuckers for taking her laptop practically as she left the meeting room where Frank had fired her.

Frankly, Eve’s getting bored. Unemployed daytime television loses its thrill after a while. Letting out a huff, she swings her feet off the couch and stands — only to immediately sit heavily back down, a head rush coming on strong and fast. Not from standing too quickly — she _wishes_ — but the other kind of head rush. The one she only gets when she’s about to have an, ah...episode.

She barely gets out a muttered “fuck” before she’s gone, nothing to indicate that someone was ever there but a pile of ratty pajamas on the couch. 

And then she sits up in a bathtub.

It is not a particularly nice bathtub, either. Nor is the bathroom it’s located in. Both could fairly be described as “spartan.” Also “dingy.”

For a moment, Eve squeezes her eyes shut, hoping against hope that this will be the rare, ultra-brief, there and back again trip, and that she’ll open her eyes to her couch and her files. 

Predictably, nothing happens. She sighs and, setting her shoulders, gets to figuring out where she is.

Actually...where the hell _is_ she?

Not that Eve is a stranger to appearing in alien places, alien _times_. These charming time-travel episodes drop her into a wonderfully diverse variety of locales (her favorites include “public restroom” and the evergreen classic “crowded shopping mall”). 

But, still. She _usually_ has a sense of where she is. If it’s a public restroom, it could be the one in the back of the diner she used to go to in Stamford with her dad. If it’s a shopping mall, more often than not it’s the one she sometimes took trips to from U Conn on the weekends. 

It’s not always somewhere she recognizes, of course. And even if it’s someplace she has been, that doesn’t mean she always _remembers_ it — who recalls every restaurant and gas station and library and other varied location one might go to in the course of one’s life? 

However this condition of hers works, though, it does generally seem to draw from her life’s experience. And her life’s experience, it follows, is generally centered in the two places Eve has lived. Connecticut, and the U.K. 

She’s beginning to think that this bathtub (and, by extension, the bathroom — these are the skills of deduction that won her a career in government intelligence) is in neither. 

There’s no one reason for it — she’s just gotten very good at quickly taking a place in, assessing any possible threats (or opportunities), and developing a plan of action based on where (and when) she thinks she is. All geared to getting safe, sitting tight, and hoping to god she’ll go back to her own time without too much fuss. Or, you know, getting arrested. 

She has, obviously, been in countless bathrooms in both America and Britain. And this...just doesn’t look like it fits in in either place; the outlets are different, as is the faucet and even the flush lever on the toilet — her analysis is cut short by a loud clatter from somewhere above her that has her practically jumping out of her skin. 

Heart racing, Eve looks around wildly, ready as hell for fight or flight (either one is always an option, depending), and barely keeps in a yelp as something lands against her bare thigh — only to feel very dumb as she realizes it’s a shampoo bottle. Right. She’s in a bathtub. Yes.

She leans forward to grab it — and freezes. Russian. The words on the bottle are in _Russian_. 

Why are they in Russian?!

Eve stares at the stubbornly unchanging Cyrillic letters for a moment before reaching up and grabbing another bottle at random, hoping desperately that this is just a strange one-off. But her luck has never been that good. More Russian greets her. 

Oh god, this is not good, this is very not good, this is in fact _bad_. 

Russian. Meaning, she is in Russia, or possibly Ukraine, or, Jesus, any other former Soviet satellite state — unless it’s the ‘80s, making any of these places _current_ Soviet satellite states, and okay Jesus Christ she really needs to get out of here.

(And also, _why_ is she here?! She has nothing to tie her here, has never even been to any of these countries in her life...yet. She can’t speak for the future her, of course, but good god she can only worry about so many potential issues at once.)

Eve takes a deep breath, ruthlessly stamping her rising panic down. Focus, dammit. Focus on what you can actually do something about right now. So what if you’re in Russia or somewhere like that and have no idea why and didn’t even know you could travel this far. You can’t do anything about that, so just treat this like any other place and do what you’ve always done. 

And what has she always done? Survive. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, Time-Travel Edition: find (steal) clothing. Figure out where she is and then decide, based on the circumstances and what clothing she manages to liberate, if it’s safer to hide somewhere until she returns back to her own time or she can mill around with the general populace and take in the sights, such as they may be. 

(Eve has spent many pleasant trips in this way, rewatching some of her childhood and teenage favorites in the back row of her local movie theater growing up — she’s seen _Back to the Future_ six times alone, and has never sympathized so much with a straight white male protagonist as she has Marty McFly. At least _he_ had a choice.)

Something tells her there won’t be much sightseeing on this trip. The only Russian she knows is “vodka,” and she can’t quite imagine desperately babbling that at a cop here will do much to convince him of her sanity, especially if she can’t find sufficient clothing to otherwise establish her respectability. 

Okay, first step: it’s time to leave the tub. Eve would love to stay and hide here, but until she establishes, at minimum, if anyone’s home, she needs to keep moving — her little panic session has already burned too many precious seconds before someone might come investigate that clatter. 

She takes another valuable moment to gather her resolve before gripping the sides of the tub and hauling herself up. In a stroke of luck — the first she’s had since arriving here — there is a bathrobe hanging from a hook on the door, and she quickly shrugs it on. It’s fancier and more elaborate than any similar type of robe she’s ever had, brightly colored and patterned and looking decidedly out of place in its drab surroundings, but it serves her purpose and she doesn’t feel quite as vulnerable once it’s on. 

As she ties it around her waist she thinks she might smell a floral scent around the collar — women’s perfume? Generally, if there must be a person in the vicinity wherever she turns up, Eve will always prefer it be a woman, but that rule does have its exceptions and who’s to say this (possible) woman even lives alone?

One thing at a time. Eve listens at the door, hearing nothing through the thin wood. Holding her breath, she eases it open just a crack, listening closely all the while. She thinks she might hear a fan slowly whirring in a nearby room, but no voices, no music or telltale creaks or clanks. It’s the best it’s gonna get for her, then. 

Slowly, slowly, she opens the door just wide enough to slip out, stepping out into the hall and sending up silent thanks that there is cheap linoleum tiling on the ground and not hardwood just waiting to creak and sell her out (when you have to sneak as much as Eve does you begin to develop unreasonable feelings of resentment towards myriad inanimate objects, including but not limited to ancient flooring, un-oiled door hinges, jammed windows, and other housing features of that nature).

She considers her options. To her left is the front door — it’s tempting to just walk up to it and leave immediately, but that’s not smart. If there’s no one here, it’s far better to hunker down here and hope she’s leaving soon; Eve would feel more confident if she was in London or anywhere in Connecticut, but she’s not, is she? No, she’s in Russia. _Maybe_.

And anyway, front doors are never quiet. The damn things always make a sound when they’re opened, almost as if they’re designed that way. No, give her a back door or a window or a fire escape any day. Of course, apartments don’t have back doors, but who knows, maybe the universe will give her a break and she’ll be on the ground floor and can pop a window and hop out. 

And maybe she’ll wake up tomorrow and Kasia Molkovska will be alive and her time-traveling will have miraculously left her and there’ll be a letter from Niko about what an enormous dipshit he’s realized himself to be in her mailbox.

But hey, Bill is always saying she needs to employ more optimism in her life — which is rich, coming from him — so she turns away from the front door and instead turns right, heading for what looks like a sitting room and the windows she can see there. 

Eve takes two tentative steps into the room, eyes fixed on the windows and potential freedom — it’s still and quiet, just the fan she’d heard turning slowly overhead, the furnishings sparse and utilitarian.

“Welcome back.”

Her heart stops. For a split second, but it definitely does. Because: What. The. Fuck. 

She turns. There, tucked into an armchair in the corner, in Eve’s blind spot, is a girl. 

Well, not a girl, as in not a _child_ , but a teenager, probably. A teenager with long brown hair, in a drab sweater. On her lap is a piece of paper, with a book behind it for stability, half covered in flowing handwriting. A letter?

But most unnerving at this current moment is her smile. She’s _grinning_ at Eve, and though Eve would say that there’s definitely happiness in the smile there’s a certain...predatory tilt to it as well that instantly makes Eve uneasy. 

“You were in there for a while,” the girl continues, either blind to Eve’s obvious deer-in-headlights impression or blithely uncaring of it. “I thought I was going to have come get you myself.” She looks Eve over, her eyes shamelessly running over Eve’s body. “My bathrobe looks good on you, by the way.”

She speaks with a thick Russian accent, but her English is unexpectedly good. Some of Eve’s surprise must show on her face, because the girl’s smile widens, turns smug. “My English has improved, yes? My tutor is _very_ good.” She glances down at the paper in her lap briefly as she talks, her expression softening for a split second.

Eve finds her voice. “Your...tutor?” It’s inane, but she has _absolutely no idea_ what the hell is going on right now.

“Yes, Anna. I told you about her, remember? We are doing extra lessons now, outside of school.” There is a certain...something about the way she says this last sentence that makes Eve wonder exactly what is happening during these lessons. How old is this girl, anyway? 

But that is the least of her worries right now. Her mind is going a million miles an hour, has been since “welcome back.” Because: this girl _knows_ her. Has met her, anyway. Meaning, this is not some freak aberration, her time-travel flinging her across the continent purely by accident, or triggered by the stress of her week. 

This may be her first visit here, but she knows now that it won’t be her last. Other Eves, Eves that she has not yet become but will some day in the future, have been here. And judging from the relative ease with which the girl is receiving her, more than once. 

This is disturbing, for varied reasons. First off: she has no idea who this girl is. Eve’s certain she’s never met her, or an older version of her, at any rate. She doesn’t _think_ so, anyway. This is problematic because thus far in her life, when her time-travel takes her to other people, it’s always people she has met, who she knows — _not_ random strangers. Her mind shies away from the idea that her condition now has her repeatedly visiting strangers; no, even if she doesn’t think she knows this girl, she clearly meets her at some point.

But that is complicated in and of itself. Because it’s a simplification to say that she only visits people she knows. It’s people she knows, and _cares_ about. Has had a real relationship with at at least some point, platonic or otherwise. She’s hypothesized that, given that her condition draws on her life’s experience, it treats her most significant relationships no differently, mining the strength of the relationship, the emotions it generates, and going from there. The only people she’s repeatedly visited are her dad (which is upsetting as it sounds), mom, Niko, Bill, and...this girl, apparently.

This girl, for whom she is even without a name. 

“Have you ever been married, Eve?”

Eve starts at the question. _Eve_. The girl knows her name. Eve has told her her name. There’s no avoiding it: this is definitely happening, they have definitely met, have definitely talked.

What in god’s name is going on here?

“Eve?”

The question jolts Eve out of her spiraling thoughts, and she scrambles to answer. “Um, yes, once.”

This answer doesn’t seem to please the girl — the opposite, it in fact. She crosses her arms, brows drawing down, and a glint of something dark enters her eyes. “I don’t understand the purpose. Men don’t do anything for you. They are just... _there_. All the time. They are…” She pauses, as if trying to recall something. “Extraneous. That is the word.”

She glares down at the letter on her lap as she says this last bit. 

“Um…” Eve honestly has no idea what to say to this. She’s still reeling from the whole “Eve” thing, frankly. She wonders, for the umpteenth time in the last four minutes, just who the hell this girl is.

This girl, who has been watching her, her frown fading and being supplanted by a calculating stare that somehow looks both out of place and far too at home on her face.

“Is everything alright, Eve?” 

Eve tries not to twitch at the use of her name again. “Um, yeah, yes. I’m good. Sorry.”

The girl just keeps watching her. “Are you sure?” She gives Eve a considering look. “Are you sure you...know who I am?”

Oh, god. Eve’s complete inability to play it cool has clearly not gone unnoticed, then. Still, she tries. “Of course I do!”

The girl raises her brows. Eve notes faintly that instead of looking concerned or scared or anything else she might expect a teenage girl to look in this sort of moment, she just looks a bit curious, and mostly, _amused_. This irritates Eve more than it should, given the circumstances. “Then what’s my name?”

Goddamnit. Alright, the jig is up, her bluff has been called, other dumb idioms. “Okay, you caught me. I have no idea who the hell you are.” Eve shrugs. She knows she should be concerned or at least alert about this potentially risky situation, but for some reason she mostly just wants to see what happens next. Bill would say she’s letting Reckless Eve out again. “Sorry?”

The girl surprises her yet again. Instead of getting angry, she laughs, real delight in her voice, and sets the letter aside as she leans forward, clapping her hands. “Eve! You are so naughty!” She lowers her voice, as if to discuss clandestine matters. “But I knew you didn’t know who I was almost immediately, it was so _obvious_.” 

“It...it was?”

The girl nods, looking self-satisfied. “You are not very hard to read, you know.” She stands with a flourish, smirking. “Also, you normally would never tell me _anything_ about your personal life.”

Dammit. She’s right. Eve definitely would not opt to give this extremely unsettling girl a single detail. She’s seriously off her game right now.

“But, it is fine, I am not mad at your trying to lie to me, because it is actually very cool to meet a you who does not know me. I will need to start keeping notes. Time-travel can be so confusing!” She gives Eve a conspiratorial look, as if they are in on a secret together. 

Eve can only smile weakly — definitely not having a full-on internal freak out, no way, not her.

The girl smiles back, once again not seeming to detect Eve’s discomfort, and takes a few steps forward until she is only a few feet away from Eve. “I am Oksana, by the way. It is nice to meet you. Again. And, before you ask, it’s 2011.”

Oksana. Somehow, Eve gets the sense that her life has just gotten exponentially more complicated, which is super and _just_ what she needed right now. 

She examines Oksana from this closer perspective. No, she really doesn’t think she’s met this girl before, but the girl did just tell her that it’s seven years in the past, which probably makes the Oksana in Eve’s time somewhere in her mid-twenties. Appearances can change a lot in that amount of time, especially as the last of the baby fat drains away after one’s teen years. 

“Nice to meet you...Oksana.”

Oksana, for her part, is examining Eve right back, this time letting her eyes fall on Eve’s mane of curly black hair. “Yes, yes. You know, Eve, I keep telling you, you really should keep wearing it down.”

The words fall on Eve like anvils. _Wear it down_. She stares at Oksana’s face, looks past the rounded cheeks and brown hair, only into her hazel eyes. 

Her cat-like eyes. Wide, but alert.

And gets a head rush. A strong one. She staggers, a hand coming up to grasp her head. 

The last thing she sees is Oksana staring at her curiously, but making no move to help her. 

And then she’s back in her apartment, arriving in a flurry of files and paperwork. But she’s mindless to all that. 

Oksana’s hazel eyes. _Wear it down_. Her voice, minus the Russian accent.

Oksana is the nurse. The nurse from the hospital bathroom. 

But who _is_ she? 

And, more to the point...who is she to _Eve_?

  
  


**Villanelle is 16, Eve is 40**

Eve sits up in the bathtub with a grimace. Damn, she hates this place. This Soviet-era government housing that Oksana got placed in after she was released from the detention center is depressing in the extreme. No wonder Villanelle hates talking about this time in her life. It is the furthest thing from the glamour and excess she’s indulged in ever since.

But at least it’s a useful indicator of where she is in Villanelle’s timeline. Oksana only lived here for five years, from when she was released from juvenile detention (which she was put _into_ after that unfortunate incident with the pen) to when, at 18, she was arrested and imprisoned for...what she did to Maxi. 

Eve replaces the fallen shampoo bottles that always seem to make a racket around her whenever she shows up in this bathtub, then steps out of the tub with a huff. She is a _tad_ grumpy — one minute, she’s laying in bed with Villanelle, _her_ Villanelle, about ready to set her computer aside and go to sleep (although with the way Villanelle’s hand was sneakily sliding up her shirt, sleep may have been somewhat delayed), the next, she’s surrounded by dingy porcelain. If she’s a bit put out, though, she can only imagine the pout on Villanelle’s face right now. Poor baby.

She stretches idly before retrieving Oksana’s expensive, obviously stolen bathrobe from the hook and pulling it on with practiced movements. She pauses for a split second before tying it — it seems...newer than she’s seen it before, with that new clothing smell still on it. 

_When_ is she, exactly? 

Her movements slow, tempered by new caution. Oksana has _always_ been dangerous, no matter her age. No reason to make herself an easy target. 

She eases the door open, listens, steps out — and then there is a blur of movement in the corner of her eye, practically silent, before she is slammed against the opposite wall. 

Eve curses herself. This is what happens when you get complacent, dammit. The girl currently pressing her against the wall, the threat of violence radiating from her, is _not_ her Villanelle. She’s not even the Oksana with which Eve has a tentative sort of friendship...understanding...relationship...thing. 

What she _is_ , is...young. The youngest Eve has ever seen her. Her cheeks are round, brown hair long. She’s wearing a matching pajama set.

Honestly, she’s so...she’s so _cute_. Eve would squeeze her cheeks, if her arms were free. 

Oksana does not seem to share the sentiment, judging by the way she is baring her teeth and snarling some harsh sounding Russian at Eve. Eve has picked up a bit here and there over the years, can get the general idea of promised violence and pain, et cetera, coming her way, her foolishness at choosing this apartment to try to steal from. 

Being accused as a thief by the most unrepentant thief she knows is too much — and her amusement must show on her face, because fury alights in Oksana’s eyes (and oh, Eve knows she has issues when she finds _that_ cute) and suddenly there is a kitchen knife barely an inch from her throat. 

Hmm. Less cute.

Eve considers her options. She _could_ try to fight this Oksana — she is still growing and lacks much of the muscle mass, finesse, and sheer ruthlessness the Twelve will beat into her — but the girl _does_ have a knife and, Eve knows, full willingness to use it. Eve is not quite as useless in a physical fight as she once was — Villanelle has made sure of that — but she still likes to be pretty confident of her chances before stepping into anything, and this could still probably go either way. But most importantly: Eve really doesn’t want to fight Oksana. 

Right. Talking it is, then.

“Hey. Hey!”

This cuts into Oksana’s latest litany of threats, and the girl tilts her head back from Eve a little. She clearly isn’t accustomed to anyone talking back yet. 

Eve glares at her. “I don’t speak Russian. Do you speak English?”

Oksana blinks. She doesn’t say anything.

Eve rolls her eyes. “And you don’t have to believe me, but I’m not a thief, okay.”

Oksana flits her eyes down at the bathrobe Eve is wearing. Fair point.

“...I’m just borrowing this.” 

This does not seem to inspire much confidence. Eve sighs, her neck brushing against the knife with the movement. “Look, I know you can understand me, alright? Come on. I know you’re curious as to how I got into your place without you hearing anything.”

At this, the girl’s stare shoots up from where, yep, she was definitely staring at Eve’s chest. Eve could almost laugh, if it weren’t for the knife. After a moment, Oksana says, her English a tad hesitant but still easily understandable, “You could have climbed up...come in through the window.”

Eve scoffs. “It’s twelve stories up. Like I have that kind of upper body strength.” (This is, sadly, entirely true.) “I’m not going to fight you, okay.”

Oksana doesn’t hesitate. “It would not go well for you.”

Jesus. “Yeah, I don’t doubt that.”

“Why are you here.”

And isn’t _that_ the million dollar question. “Look, can we move this to the sitting room? You can keep the knife on me.” Oksana looks at her flatly. “I’m not gonna try anything.”

The girl stares at her for a long, long moment before moving back a few inches, keeping the knife raised. It’s just enough room for Eve to slide free and start walking, slowly and with her hands visible by her sides, the few steps to the sitting room and the ugly little couch there. 

“Turn around.”

She turns. 

“Sit down.”

She sits.

Oksana stands over her, knife still in hand. Eve almost feels nostalgic. They’re really gonna be doing this little dance their whole lives, huh?

“We are in the sitting room. Now tell me: how did you get in and,” here her voice gains a hard edge, “if you are not a thief, why are you here?”

Eve looks at her. She’s never asked Villanelle how this first interaction went. It seems wrong somehow — as if each of these meetings deserves to be experienced uniquely and organically, without prior knowledge to tarnish it or make it anything less than it should be.

Guess she’ll just have to muddle along then. Oksana is so much like Villanelle, and yet not; a wide gulf stretches between the girl she is and the woman she will become. 

She decides to address the easier question first. “I didn’t have to break in. I just...showed up in your bathroom. I do that sometimes. Show up places.”

Oksana looks at her unblinkingly for a few seconds. Then: “Is this your way of telling me you’re a drug addict?” 

Eve winces. “Um, no. Although I do get that a lot.” (She does.)

But Oksana’s brows are starting to furrow. “I don’t like drug addicts.”

Hmm. This is possibly starting to get away from Eve. She doesn’t particularly _want_ to die at the hands of a violent (okay, more violent) teenage version of her girlfriend, so decides it’s time for a small gamble. “I’m not on drugs...Oksana.”

This surprises the girl, Eve can see. Anyone else would be understandably creeped out at a stranger knowing their name (and also appearing inside their home and wearing their clothes, but hey, no one’s perfect) but Oksana is not like other people. If anything, she just seems a little intrigued, a little impressed. “You know my name.”

Eve nods.

“You are...how do you say it...stalking me?” Predictably, Oksana seems...pleased, more than anything else, by this possibility. Villanelle likes attention; teenage Oksana _craves_ it. And what is stalking but paying someone attention in its most intense and unhealthy form? 

Eve has to laugh. One could argue that she _is_ doing that, sort of, constantly being hurled in and out of Oksana’s life at random intervals. But it’s also not at all what’s happening, so: “No, not really. Well, not by choice.”

This seems to frustrate Oksana. “You are not making any sense. It is starting to get annoying.”

Eve knows the feeling. The thing is, there really never is an easy way to say it. But she has to start somewhere. “I...have a sort of...condition. I have difficulty staying in my, um, time. Sometime I go other places, other...times. Then, after a while, I go back, um, home. And...” here’s the hardest part. “I visit you. A lot.”

There is a strained pause after this admittedly less than impressive speech, and then a reaction Eve was not really expecting: Oksana laughs. Loudly. At length. Frankly, it’s a little obnoxious. 

When it finally peters out, Oksana lets out a long breath. “Okay, that was funny. Time-travel! I needed that. Thank you…” She tilts her head. “What is your name?”

“Um...Eve.”

“Eve. Nice name. Thank you, Eve.” Suddenly the mirth is gone from her face, replaced by an alien look of utter flatness as she raises the knife. “But my patience is gone, and since you do not seem interested in telling me the truth I think I will be killing you now.”

But Eve is ready for her. She sits up, leans forward, and speaks firmly: “Your name is Oksana Astankova. You are the daughter of Tatiana and Mikhail. You were born in Grizmet, which you hate. Your mother was cold, and always laughed at things that weren’t funny. Your brother Pyotr followed you around a lot and was annoying. You are...I know that you are exceptionally bright. Determined. Hard-working.”

As she speaks, the flatness fades from Oksana’s face, replaced first with skepticism and then, when Eve mentions her mother, a flash of icy cold anger mixed with something deeper. And then, her face is smooth once more. “What else?”

Eve takes a breath. “I know...you’re in love with your teacher. Anna.”

Oksana’s expression wavers. “What else?”

“I know…” Eve doesn’t really want to say this part. She thinks she has to. “People say you’re a psychopath.”

At this, Oksana’s face shutters once more. “You should never tell a psychopath they are a psychopath. It—”

“Upsets them. Yes, I know.”

There seems to be nothing more to say after that. After a long, long moment, Oksana sinks down into the chair opposite Eve, never taking her eyes off her. They stare at each other. Finally: “Time-travel isn’t real, Eve.”

Eve shrugs, feeling tired. “I used to think that too.”

“How can you expect me to believe what you’re saying?”

At least Eve has an answer for that. “Easy. Just wait a bit. I’ll disappear to my own time eventually.”

“Huh.” Another pause. “There is no way for you to know...all those things. Personal details are in my file, but not...those things.”

“Like I said. I visit you. A lot. We...know each other.” Here, Eve has to tread carefully. She’s still a little fuzzy on the details of her condition, what she can and can’t do, but she’s pretty sure telling people in the past too much about their lives in the future is a bad idea. Then things like predeterminism and paradox and the space-time continuum get involved and it gets...messy. It drove Niko mad, but Eve always stuck to her guns on this matter, and she isn’t going to stop now. 

Especially given how complicated her and this girl’s intertwined timelines are already going to be.

“How? How do we know each other? You are American. How do we even meet?”

All great questions. All of which Eve will not be answering. “You’re just going to have to keep living and wait and see what happens. Just take my word for it, okay, we’re definitely gonna meet.”

Oksana does _not_ like this answer, the same way she dislikes being kept from anything that she wants. “But—”

Eve has never been so happy to get the telltale head rush. “Oksana. I’m going now. I’ll see you again, okay?”

“What is happ— _blyat_!”

And then Eve is gone.

**Villanelle is 30, Eve is 40**

It is always a welcome relief to return to her bed. To _her_ Villanelle. She has a soft spot for each and every variation of the girl, will always treasure her interactions with all of them — both for the happiness they bring her and the insight she gains from each one — but nothing can ever replace the hard-won life she shares with Villanelle in the present, in the same timeline.

Frankly, it’s a miracle they’ve even gotten here. As this latest trip has reminded her all over again. 

Villanelle stirs from her side of the bed, smiling sleepily at Eve as Eve pulls her oversized sleeping shirt over her head. “Welcome back.”

Eve can’t help but smile. How many times has she heard Villanelle say that phrase? Dozens at least, but it still hasn’t gotten old. Eve thinks that maybe it never will. 

“Hi,” she murmurs, before leaning down to kiss her. Villanelle reciprocates with a pleased hum, wrapping a hand around the back of Eve’s neck. When they part, Eve smiles at her, feeling mischievous. “Guess who I just met?”

The younger woman quirks an eyebrow at her. “Who?”

“Well, she was about sixteen...round cheeks, very fiesty, more than a little stabby…I liked her, actually.”

Villanelle’s lips part as she looks at Eve. “You mean…”

“Yup. Just met a certain Oksana for the very first time. She pulled a knife on me.” She pretends to look rueful. “Felt weird being on the other side of that situation, to be honest.”

Villanelle stares at her before breaking into a delighted smile. “You met me?!”

Eve smiles. “I think this is like the third time, if we're being technical.”

Villanelle laughs before pulling her down for another kiss, still smiling. Just before their lips meet, she breathes, “Sorry about the knife.”

“I thought that was my line,” Eve whispers back.

“I don’t think I would’ve been able to use it, if it helps. I was very distracted by your...everything.”

“Glad to hear some things never change.”

Villanelle rolls her eyes, and kisses her.

They don’t talk much after that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Would love to hear your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal reminder that ages have been tweaked, Eve is 10 years older, yadda yadda.
> 
> There will NOW be a part 4. I don't know what's happening.

**Villanelle is 23, Eve is 39**

The first thing she registers is the distinct sound of a girl giggling. 

Not a child cutely giggling, either, oh no. This is very much the kind of “you’re so funny you should come closer and tell me more about it” flirtatious giggle she’s heard in bars and clubs and yes, even the workplace, more times than she cares to remember.

That she is hearing it filtered through the door of the rather chic bathroom she’s suddenly sitting in makes it all the more grating.

She permits herself an eye roll before righting the fallen bottles — no matter where or when she goes, always with the bathtub and shampoo bottles — and then makes to get out of the tub.

At least it’s a pretty nice tub. She vastly prefers Villanelle’s Paris flat to her depressing Moscow government housing, that’s for damn sure. Say what you will about the Twelve, they sure pay better than the government (and yes, that’s _any_ government). 

Needless to say, Villanelle agrees. The difference between rather dowdily dressed Oksana — shapeless sweaters and dated dresses — and dressed-to-kill Villanelle is night and day. Ever since Oksana started making covert organization, very much untaxed hitman money, she’s never had more freedom to explore her self-expression — and explore she does. Every time Eve visits her during this time, her clothing collection has about doubled from what it was previously, not even mentioning her chest of wigs (not a euphemism). 

Without warning, the bathroom door creaks, and Eve is left frozen, one leg out of the tub, one in, as the subject of her thoughts opens the door just wide enough to squeeze inside. 

Her hand is behind her back, body taut with energy ready to be spent — until she sees Eve and relaxes, tossing the knife she was holding into the large armoire in the corner. “Hi, Eve.”

The casualness of her greeting is slightly undercut by the way she is gazing intently at Eve, her eyes hot, and Eve remembers abruptly that, oh yeah, she’s completely naked. 

Villanelle is not sixteen now. Honestly, she doesn’t look too different from Eve’s Villanelle, now that her hair is blonde and she’s wearing a tailored Loewe suit. It makes a difference.

Eve flushes, feeling very hot all of a sudden, and crosses her arms over her chest. “Um, do you mind?” She nods at the omnipresent robe hanging in the armoire. 

Villanelle drags her eyes down Eve’s body one last time before moving smoothly to the armoire and tossing her the robe, which Eve doesn’t hesitate to slip on. “You do not need to be so embarrassed, you know. We’ve known each long enough.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m concerned about,” Eve grumbles. “ _Oksana_.”

Something in Villanelle’s eyes flashes. “Actually, I prefer to go by Villanelle now, Eve.”

Eve knows this, of course. That’s why she called her Oksana. “Villanelle, huh? Not exactly a common nickname.”

“Nothing about me is common,” Villanelle replies smoothly. 

Eve doesn’t bother hiding the eye roll this peak Villanelle reply provokes, but her retort is cut off by a feminine voice calling from the living room. “Elodie? Viens-tu?”

“ _Elodie_?” Eve mutters at Villanelle. 

Villanelle shrugs, unbothered. “It’s a nice name, no? It means ‘wealthy.’”

“How nice.”

“It is.” Villanelle calls a reply over her shoulder, and then turns to give Eve a rather smug smile. “I’m sorry, Eve, but I have company at the moment. I’m celebrating, you see.”

“Oh?” Eve already has an idea what the occasion could be.

“Yes, I managed to pull off a rather tricky project for my employers this morning, and they’re giving me a bonus for my timely...execution.” Her lips turn up at the corners as she says this last bit, looking as if she’s enjoying her private joke rather a lot.

Eve stares at her, trying not to look too amused herself. Villanelle has, since she started working for the Twelve, clearly decided that she’s not going to tell Eve the exact nature of her work — instead it’s been a lot of oblique references to consulting jobs and complex proposals that require a diverse skill set, go-getter attitude, and ability to think on one’s feet. And lots of international travel, of course.

Eve has asked her Villanelle why she was so gunshy about the matter — it’s not like Eve doesn’t know about Villanelle’s violent tendencies, after all, didn’t condemn her for what she did to Maxi. Villanelle just shrugged — apparently it was less about that, and more that she wanted to keep this part of her life separate from Eve, at first because she didn’t know how Eve would react, and then because it was easier and didn’t risk things changing between them. Even though she felt she understood Eve better than she did most people, Eve was still a person, and Villanelle had learned that people were unpredictable and reacted in ways she didn’t understand to things she found very logical and obvious.

So. Ixnay on the illing-kay.

Of course, Eve can’t really be too mad at this — she is hiding plenty herself. And by “plenty,” she means pretty much everything about herself that isn’t immediately obvious by her appearance and voice, and the rare slip-up she makes every now and then — _you_ try to deal with time-travel, staying on your toes around an even more murderous younger version of your girlfriend, and keeping exhaustive track of what you have and haven’t told her before you try to judge Eve, thank you very much. Villanelle knows she grew up in America, obviously, that she moved away eventually, that she has a master’s degree, is Korean, was once married...and that’s about it. Not even her last name. 

Definitely _not_ that she works for British intelligence in London, that she is, technically, a law enforcement officer.

And considering that that is apparently all Eve has leaked since Villanelle was sixteen (again — _you_ try accounting for what future versions of yourself will tell Villanelle _in the past_ , Jesus, she needs a drink), she can’t beat herself up too much about it. She knows with complete certainty that every detail Villanelle gains will be used to try and find her out there, the Eve Park (well, currently Eve Polastri, probably) living her life in this timeline, blissfully unaware of what’s coming at her, and force a meeting between them.

Eve can’t allow this. Things have to happen when they’re meant to happen, when they’ve _already_ happened. Otherwise: paradox, holes in the space-time continuum, rupturing of the world and/or universe as Eve knows it, aliens, probably. 

Basically, she’s keeping her mouth shut, and must bear Villanelle (selectively) doing the same.

And in the meantime, Eve must endure endless jokes about offing people. 

This is the woman she falls in love with, ladies and gentlemen.

“Well, sounds like you earned it,” Eve finally replies.

“I did,” Villanelle says, pleased. “My work is impeccable.”

She casts another glance back at the living room. “I must go now, Eve, I am being rude to my guest.” She gives Eve a considering look. “Unless you care to join us…?”

Villanelle laughs at Eve’s expression, before holding a dramatic finger to her lips and backing out. And then, with a wave of her hand, she’s gone, the door shut firmly behind her. Eve can hear her talking in smooth French to her...guest.

Eve grinds her teeth. Villanelle is fucking with her. Eve knows Villanelle is fucking with her and Villanelle knows she knows, and, most infuriatingly, they _both_ know she can’t do a damn thing about it. 

Not at the current moment, anyway. 

But, oh. She is going to have _words_ with her Villanelle.

In the meantime, she heaves a sigh, stares up beseechingly at the ceiling, receives no divine intervention, and finally sinks down to the tiles to lean back against the tub and pretend that she’s not listening to her future girlfriend having sex with some random French girl through the ridiculously thin walls of the flat.

Words. There will be _words_.

**Villanelle is 25, Eve is 40**

Strobe lights. Loud techno, with deep bass that you can feel in your chest. Scores of bodies pressed into each other, uncaring or unconscious of anything but the music and the ones around them. The smell of sweat and smoke and alcohol over everything. 

Eve has been here too many times. It never gets any easier. 

The first time she was brought back here, she didn’t understand what was happening. It was barely eight months after the actual event, and it all happened so fast.

The strobe lights. The people. The bass.

Villanelle, pushing her way to Bill with that shark smile on her face and knife in her hand.

Eve could only watch, struck dumb with horror and the sickening realization that _yes this was actually happening her time-travel had brought her back here to watch Bill die_.

She watched Villanelle grab Bill. Hold him to her in a grotesque embrace, a mockery of intimacy. Sink the knife in, once, twice, six times. And then seamlessly disappear back into the crowd.

Watched herself fight fruitlessly against the crowd to get to him. 

When she got back home, she didn’t talk to Villanelle for the rest of the day. 

The next time, she tried to save him. 

It was pointless, she knew even then. She learned very quickly that one thing her time-travel will not allow is the changing of events in her life. Whatever has happened, has happened. When she is brought back to any event, from the most insignificant to the truly life-altering, she can only watch. Any attempt she makes to change even the smallest detail will invariably go awry. 

She couldn’t save her dad when she first found him on the floor of the kitchen in their house in Stamford, the last year of her master’s program. The heart attack was massive, quick, and fatal. Even when, on a return trip, she called 911 before she originally even found him. Even when she called herself from a pay phone and told Eve to leave campus — yes, skip her exam — and go home to check on him. 

No matter what she did, she couldn’t even make the ambulance come faster, let alone save him.

Puts a new spin on being a bystander in one’s own life.

But here, in this club, at that moment, she tried anyway. 

How could she not? Bill was her dearest friend for so many years, well before she’d even stumbled across Villanelle’s trail. His dark humor, wit, and loyalty had fit in with her own take on life. He stuck by her through so much — the end of her marriage. The time-travel. God, the time-travel. As her boss, he covered for her endlessly, pretending it was him who had excused her from meetings or sent her out on random errands or allowed her late arrival to the office. 

As a friend, he offered the balance of honesty and lack of judgement that she desperately needed. He was a confidante and a companion. 

And Villanelle killed him in cold blood, because he was Eve’s friend and because she could. 

So Eve tried to save him. All that meant was she strained against endless bodies that kept appearing in her path, forming an impenetrable wall through which she could get glimpses of Villanelle getting closer and closer, until— 

She didn’t talk to Villanelle for two straight days.

The strobe lights. The people. The bass. 

This time, she neither watches nor tries to intervene. Instead, after stealing someone’s long coat draped carelessly on the bar, she leaves the club entirely. Goes to the alley next to the building, away from the line and the entrance, where people go to smoke. Bums a cigarette off someone, leans against the wall, and takes a long drag. 

She can’t save Bill. Can’t bear to watch him die, again.

Can’t keep punishing Villanelle for her past actions, either, just because Eve is forced to keep reliving them. She had to accept, when she chose life with Villanelle, that this was going to be part of it, and that she has to — if not be _okay_ with it, then at least find a way to coexist with it. 

Because the Villanelle currently in the building Eve just left, luring Bill deeper and deeper into her trap, is part of the woman who, five minutes ago, was cursing at a souffle for not rising properly in their kitchen as Eve laughed. 

Eve knew that when she made her choice. She fell in _love_ with that Villanelle. Can even accept that that darkness is part of what drew her in.

So she can’t really complain, can she.

But she doesn’t have to watch. 

And that’s why she’s just going to stay out here, smoking this cigarette and not thinking about anything. 

The smoke lingers in the air for a moment, before dissipating in the wind. 

**Villanelle is 24, Eve is 42**

“So which one do you want to watch?”

It’s not all conflict and tension and fraught moments punctuated with the threat of someone getting stabbed. 

Sometimes, they just watch a movie.

Eve looks at the choices Villanelle has pulled up on Netflix, and snorts. “I’m sensing a theme here.”

Villanelle assumes a patently fake look of innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Eve gives her a wry look before nodding at the TV and the icons for _Groundhog Day_ , _Terminator 2_ , and _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ visible there. “Cute, but a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Eve! We are bonding. I am just trying to relate to you.”

“Through fictional time-travel movies…?”

“I didn’t have very many nonfiction choices to work with, actually.”

Eve rolls her eyes. “Is there a reason you picked _Terminator 2_ over the original?”

Villanelle shrugs, the motion unfairly elegant on her frame. She, like Eve, is wearing one of the sleek robes from her seemingly infinite collection, though Eve would lay down money on the fact that she changes into more...provocative options the second she hears Eve arrive in her flat. (This is supported by the existence of the extremely soft and fuzzy bathrobe her Villanelle keeps at the back of their closet and pretends isn’t there, but also vociferously refused to give away that one time Eve was Kondo-ing the place.) “Sarah Connor is much more badass in this one. And she has great biceps.”

Eve has to agree. Still, she’s not sure she’s mentally equipped to watch a heavily-accented emotionless assassin stomp around meting out violence for an entire movie, even _if_ Linda Hamilton does a tank top justice. “Let’s just go with _Groundhog Day_.”

Villanelle looks disappointed for a moment, before nodding slowly. “You do remind me of Bill Murray in that movie sometimes.”

Eve just makes herself comfortable on the couch — _damn_ is it plush, assassins really _do_ make a killing — refusing to rise to the bait (not least because Villanelle may be onto something, not that Eve would ever admit it). Villanelle, for her part, just smirks and plops down besides her, hitting play.

They watch in companionable silence for the first thirty minutes or so, Villanelle laughing as, on the screen, Phil Connors realizes there are no consequences for his actions in the time-loop he’s stuck in and begins to pull crazier and crazier stunts. 

“Is this how you feel, Eve?”

Eve casts her a sideways glance. What the hell, she’ll bite. “...Sometimes, yeah.” 

(The adrenalin and wild, reckless energy supplied from running from the cops with nothing but an oversized raincoat on and a stolen slice of pizza in hand is certainly unlike anything else she’s experienced. Especially when she’s whisked back to her time just as she’s cornered and swallowing down the last bite.)

Villanelle nods. “It seems very freeing.”

Eve doesn’t say what she’s thinking — that she’s the one with the time-travel, but of the two of them, Villanelle is certainly the more free. “It can be. But it’s usually just stressful. And I _do_ face consequences. My days definitely don’t start over, for one thing.”

“Hmm.”

And then they subside back into silence. On the TV, things are going worse for Phil as the reality of his situation sinks in. They watch as he drives off a cliff with the titular groundhog, only to wake up in his hotel room the very same morning.

“Yeah,” Eve says drily. “That wouldn’t work for me. I would just die.”

Villanelle shoots her a look at that, but doesn’t say anything. 

After a moment, though, Eve doesn’t think she imagines it when Villanelle slides a bit closer to her on the sofa, radiating forced nonchalance. She doesn’t move, either closer or away, keeping her eyes on the screen. 

“I wouldn’t like that, Eve.”

At this, Eve _does_ tear her eyes away. “Sorry?”

Villanelle doesn’t meet her gaze, staring at the movie determinedly. “If you died. I wouldn’t like that.”

Eve stares at her. “...Oh.” 

She isn't dumb. She knows Villanelle is attracted to her, the same way Eve was attracted to her when she first saw in that hospital bathroom. (It’s not like Villanelle has tried that hard to conceal her feelings on the matter.)

But Eve had never gone so far as to think any Villanelle but her own from their shared timeline has anything but physical appreciation for her. Okay, maybe not _just_ physical appreciation — the girl is clearly intrigued by Eve’s condition, and the obvious corollary of that being that Eve keeps visiting _her_ , a wonderful boost to anyone with Villanelle’s level of narcissism. 

And finally, that Eve is clearly sitting on a veritable goldmine of facts and foresight about Villanelle’s future. 

Eve thinks that it is this last thing that keeps Oksana, or Villanelle, or any other manifestation of this chameleon of a girl from deciding she’s bored with her.

But this entirely unexpected sentiment from a younger Villanelle, sitting on the sofa in her blood money-bought, chic-as-shit Parisian flat, makes her think that maybe she hasn’t been giving all these past versions of Villanelle enough credit. 

Or maybe, hasn’t been giving herself enough.

Villanelle started changing her life practically from the instant they met in that bathroom. Why couldn’t it work the other way? Eve has known the girl since she was 16, has managed to witness her at some of the most pivotal or traumatic (or often, both) moments in her life. Has never reacted with the revulsion or horror that Oksana may have expected from previous life experience.

Has kept coming back. 

Maybe Eve has been changing her right back. 

She clears her throat. “I, uh. I wouldn’t like that, either. About you, I mean.”

This time Eve knows she isn’t imagining the smile that appears on Villanelle’s face, a softer thing than the predatory grin Eve knows all too well. 

They turn back to the film. Phil has had an epiphany, is trying to change for the better and improve the lives of those around him. 

“Eve.”

“Hmm?” Eve glances at her, only to stop short. Villanelle is staring at her, gaze intent and, for once, devoid of its usual teasing glint. 

“Why have you never tried to have sex with me?”

And Villanelle _would_ find this a perfectly acceptable follow up to a tender moment.

“Um,” Eve says.

“I know you are attracted to me,” Villanelle presses on, blithely ignoring whatever is happening to Eve. 

“Well, that’s—”

“I mean, who isn’t, but _especially_ you. I see how you look at me. So, I would like to know what is keeping you.”

Eve stares at her.

“And I think you are attractive and have a very nice body as well,” Villanelle adds as an afterthought.

Eve stares at her some more. Shoves down the first half dozen replies that jump into her head — you were a child for most of these visits, I’m not Anna thank you very much, obviously you’re hot as hell, I’m not confident you wouldn’t kill me during or after, and so on. 

Becomes aware of a growing sadness spreading in her chest — because it’s so clear: to Villanelle, this older woman keeps showing up, throughout her life. Before the money and success and after. Doesn’t reject her. Spends time with her. Doesn’t seem to either expect or demand anything from her. 

For Villanelle, the shocking thing is that this woman _hasn’t_ tried to sleep with her yet. Especially when she is attracted to her. 

Eve, not for the first time, wishes she could actually control her condition and show up in 2009 Russia to curb stomp Anna. 

And there is something else, something about this entire exchange...

“Eve?”

Eve forces herself to focus. Some of the bravado has faded from Villanelle’s face the longer Eve has stayed silent, and for the first time Eve can recall, a tinge of what she can only identify as uncertainty has entered the girl’s gaze. 

A chill runs down Eve’s back. She remembers, now, exactly what and when this moment is. Villanelle, _her_ Villanelle, has told her plainly: the last time she saw Eve before they met in person in the hospital, their true selves that shared the same timeline, she asked Eve why they’d never slept together, why Eve never tried. 

Villanelle laughed when she told Eve about this, but now, experiencing that very moment, and staring into the girl’s increasingly self-conscious eyes, Eve can’t find any humor in it. 

Slowly, she raises a hand to Villanelle’s face, cupping her cheek. Eve has seen her as a teenager, but in this moment she seems impossibly young. 

Eve smiles. Villanelle stares, her eyes wide. 

“You’re gonna be pissed,” Eve says.

“...I don’t understand.”

“No. But you will. Or, I don’t know, maybe you’ll think it’s funny.”

“Eve, what—”

“Just don’t be mad for too long, okay?”

And then. 

Eve gets a head rush, that swirling dizzying sensation that starts in her head and spreads down her neck into her body until she feels weightless and nauseous and untethered from everything, including herself.

Eve kisses Villanelle. She feels her gasp against her lips. For one perfect moment, suspended in time, Eve luxuriates in the simple pleasure of kissing the woman she loves, has loved, will love.

And then she is gone. 

“Sometimes I wish I had a thousand lifetimes,” Rita is telling Phil on the TV. “I don't know, Phil. Maybe it's not a curse. Just depends on how you look at it."

**Villanelle is 25, Eve is 35**

Villanelle staggers out of the bathroom, forcing herself down the hall and around the corner before she lets herself sag against the wall, heart pounding. 

Eve. That was _Eve_. 

Eve, with absolutely no idea who she is. 

Villanelle could tell immediately, Eve’s stare completely devoid of recognition as she met Villanelle’s gaze (and this bothers Villanelle more than she wants to admit). 

“Are you alright?” _That_ is your opening line, Eve? Villanelle is, somewhat unreasonably, annoyed. _Her_ Eve would know that Villanelle is always fantastic, devastating, and completely unruffled. 

_Her_ Eve would not be caught dead in such unflattering clothing either, surely. What _was_ that strange, shapeless raincoat she was wearing, that drab shirt? Villanelle vastly prefers the robes she’s bought specially for Eve to wear whenever she visits.

She couldn’t resist a last test as she left, a phrase that always seems to trigger a reaction whenever she deploys it. “Wear it down.”

Eve just blinked at her, hands in her hair.

So it is clear. The Eve in that bathroom, it was not _her_ Eve. But it is the Eve, Villanelle is beginning to suspect, that actually belongs to this time and place.

So. They have finally met. 

Eve _would_ meet her when she is on a job. So typical, Eve!

For a moment Villanelle wonders why Eve is even here. Over the years Eve has let slip that she no longer lives in America (a fact that is quickly added to Villanelle’s meticulously kept record of every personal detail Eve has ever accidentally uttered), so perhaps it is not so surprising that she is in London — but _this_ hospital? At the very moment Villanelle is executing a very tightly timed, very pivotal assassination, of an annoying politician’s girlfriend who has been talking too much and to the wrong people? 

But, no. They have to meet _somewhere_ , it stands to reason, and there is no way Eve is involved in any of this. Cannot be. Eve is her secret, the only part of her life unrelated to her day job, the only constant she has from before the Twelve and the only one she cares to keep. No, she is not involved.

Although, she does have to admit, smart, insightful Eve, who listens to her and talks to her and watches movies with her and somehow has managed to stay interesting for the almost ten years Villanelle has known her, would be very good at this kind of job. 

Eve, who _kissed_ her the last time they met, something Villanelle has relived countless times, both individually and with other people, in the months since it happened.

Who told her not to be mad for too long. 

Hmm…

The squeal of a hospital cart getting pushed down the hall breaks her thoughts, and she instantly pushes them away, zeroing in entirely on her objective. It can wait. Eve can wait. The only thing that matters right now is her mission, and the rapidly shrinking window she has to accomplish it. 

She’ll think about Eve later.

Feeling for the knife at the small of her back, Villanelle stalks towards room 281, her mind empty save for a vague curiosity about what Kasia Molkovska’s soul will look like as it sinks down into her, forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Raise your hand if you can also no longer watch the Berlin club scene in 1x03 without just thinking "corona 🤢"
> 
> 2\. Delighted to announce Groundhog Day really stands the test of time.
> 
> 3\. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Villanelle is 18, Eve is 38**

Eve has been to many, many places in the course of her life. 

This would not typically be such an unusual or impressive statement — most people do tend to go to varied and plentiful locales in the process of living, as it happens — even when you throw in the small technicality of Eve’s pesky time-traveling and the repeat trips to the storage closet of her favorite Ealing cafe and her middle school cafeteria it arranges.

But most people, Eve would argue, have not been to Russian prison. 

Not that Eve has either, of course. Well, not in the typically understood meaning of the word, as that meaning typically does not encompass having dinner with Elena and Kenny (e.g. Elena and Eve riffing off each other at Kenny’s expense as he watches them reproachfully between bites of sushi) one moment and blinking at the unrelenting concrete and general sense of tension and repressed menace all around her the next. 

She still had half her dragon roll left, dammit. Elena better not get any ideas. 

“...Eve?”

All thoughts of sushi vanish as Eve turns toward the sound, suddenly hyper aware of her nakedness and the fact that, yep, she is definitely in a prison cell. And not just a run of the mill cell, oh no — this dank, dimly lit room, unfurnished and securely closed off from the other prisoners by a thick, steel door, can only be one place, a place Villanelle avoids mentioning even now.

The Hole. 

And hunched on what passed for the cell’s cot is who, until very recently, was the cell’s sole inhabitant. 

Oksana. 

Looking worse for the wear, Eve can’t help but notice, curled in on herself with her knees drawn to her chest and hands wrapped tight across her legs. Eve takes in the scabbed-over knuckles, the iron grip, before looking up to the girl’s face — and draws in a breath. 

Dark bruising and a split lip greet her, but they pale in comparison to Oksana’s eyes. There is a strange, hollow light in them, a desperate emptiness that Eve has never seen before and instantly has her as worried as it has her on guard. 

“...Hey.”

The girl lets out a breath at Eve’s voice, perhaps at the confirmation that Eve is really there, and looks away.

Eve watches her, aware of the disquiet spreading in her chest. She’s seen Villanelle upset. In tears. Deeply hurt. Wrapped in bloodlust as she takes a life. 

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen her quite like this. Is she shaking? 

She takes a step towards the girl, hand outstretched as if approaching a wild, possibly dangerous animal. Oksana doesn’t react. “Hey.”

No reply. 

“ _Oksana_.”

Oksana twitches at the use of her name, finally looking at Eve. 

Eve swallows. “Um...can I use that?”

Oksana follows Eve’s gaze to the blanket bunched up at the bottom of the mattress. Stares at it dully for a long moment, as if trying to recall the connection between it and herself, before abruptly leaning over to grab it and jerkily toss it to Eve. This done, she returns her gaze to her feet, for once all out of lingering glances or suggestive comments. 

This, more than anything, alarms Eve.

She wraps the blanket around herself, sparing a relieved thought that the thin, scratchy material at least hits her thighs, before fixing her stare on the silent, possibly disassociating girl before her once more. 

Eve knows all about Oksana’s prison sentence. How much she hated being here, how it was the final nail in the coffin for any regard or affection she may have ever had for her home country. The acts of shocking violence that landed her there. 

The reputation she managed to forge for herself once inside. 

Oksana looks to be around the right age. And if her injuries are any indication — not to mention being in solitary isolation — she’s very much in the process of crafting that reputation. One of sheer unpredictable ferocity, a veneer of humor and irreverence that masks a startling capacity for sudden and overwhelming brutality. Stay away. Don’t get too close. Or you’ll regret it.

But Eve knows all too well the lasting impact Anna’s rejection has.

So she takes another step. And another. And another, until she is standing before Oksana, who sits motionless. Eve would think that Oksana is senseless of her approach, were her hands not digging grooves into each other deeper and deeper the closer Eve gets.

And then Eve lets out a long sigh and, without ceremony, sits down next to her, their shoulders brushing. “How long have you been in here?”

She spares them both the dumb questions like “what’s wrong” or “what happened” — no need to belabor the obvious. 

It takes a long moment for Oksana to respond, and when she does it’s directed to her knees, but Eve will take it. “Prison? Four days. Here? Two hours.”

Enough time for the initial shock to have worn off, but recent enough that, with nothing to distract you from the reason you’re here — say, if you’ve been dragged to the Hole for beating the daylights out of another inmate — it can all be revived easily enough.

“...Did you know?”

Eve doesn’t bother lying or pretending to not know what she’s talking about. Of course she knew this was going to happen, had happened, could never not happen. “Yes.”

There is a pause. Oksana surprises her with a sudden, mirthless laugh. “You failed to mention it, then, Eve.”

Eve can’t help the way she stiffens. “You know I never tell anyone anything. Even you.”

“How convenient for you.”

Eve straightens, sharp retort ready on her tongue — because _no one_ gets to judge her for the choices she’s made to live with her condition and the toll it takes, not even Oksana — but abruptly deflates. Neither of them will win if they fight here, now. “Even if I did. Would you have believed me? Stopped seeing her? Done _anything_ differently?”

Oksana glares fiercely at her knees but doesn’t respond. Eve doesn’t expect her to. 

There is another long pause. Eve is wondering what to say, if she can say _anything_ that would lessen the hurt of this moment, when Oksana exhales and slowly tips her head down to rest on her knees. “I don’t understand.”

Eve looks at her. “Understand what?”

“I _solved_ the problem. He was a distraction...he was in the way of us being together, like we wanted. I did this for _us_.” Oksana raises her head, only to press the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I did this for us, and she called me a monster.”

Eve doesn’t think she’s imagining the way the girl’s shoulders shake. 

She could tell Oksana that, generally, killing someone’s spouse will not be taken well. Even if you were sleeping with that someone and they seemed to like you and everything they did seemed, to you, to be an encouragement. Even if you buy them a cake and balloons after. (Especially if you buy them a cake and balloons after.)

But she won’t. 

Eve knows perfectly well what the girl besides her is and isn’t capable of, and how those capabilities differ from those of the woman she will grow into. Knows what her words can and can’t do.

So she just says, “I know.”

What she means is that she knows why Oksana did it, what she thought she was achieving and solving and making possible. She knows that Anna called her a monster, and why. 

Oksana’s breath catches, and she drops her hands, finally turning her head to look at Eve, her eyes wide and wet. “You know?”

Eve nods evenly. 

“And you’re here.”

“Yes.”

A pause. “Do you think I’m a monster?”

Eve could smile. She doesn’t know how she feels about the word “fate,” but there are certain moments between her and Villanelle that make her wonder, repeating and rippling through their lifetimes and timelines. “I think...you were in love.”

Oksana doesn’t understand the true significance of this sentence, of course, doesn’t get that Eve is acknowledging Oksana’s capacity for the emotion, but the words strike home regardless. She slumps, eyes sliding shut with a long sigh. “Yes.”

She doesn’t resist as Eve tentatively slides a hand up her back, gently pulling Oksana to her, until her head is resting on Eve’s shoulder. 

“Yes, I was.”

  
  


**Villanelle is 33, Eve is 43, and 35**

Villanelle must be back with the Italian. Eve can practically taste the gnocchi from where she’s sitting, is already a glass of wine in and is very ready for her cheesy carbs. And the garlic bread, oh yes.

Another clatter, this time accompanied with a string of muttered curses, deals Eve’s hopes a miserable death. It is very much _not_ Villanelle. Her disappointment is immeasurable and her night is ruined. 

She watches dolefully as Eve, a younger Eve this time, emerges from her and Villanelle’s bedroom, having dressed herself in a large t-shirt and shorts. 

Other Eve stops short in the doorway at the sight of her, her hands stilling from where they were pulling her hair free of the collar. “Oh. Hey.”

She grunts. She would’ve preferred the pasta.

Other Eve shoots her a glare as she moves to join her on the sofa. “Please. You don’t even want to know about the hellish month I’ve been having. No, _months_.”

She really doesn’t. She’s lived it already, thank you. “Give it a rest, Ghost of Christmas Past. Wine?”

Other Eve looks like she wants to argue, but catches sight of the wine bottle and sags, fight draining. “Hit me.”

Eve considers getting another glass, decides the kitchen is too far and there’s really not _that_ much left in the bottle — hmm, that must’ve been a big glass, or was it two? — so, without ceremony, hands it over to Other Eve, who takes it without complaint. And judging from the long pull she takes, is clearly going through it. 

Other Eve’s eyes bulge as she swallows, and she turns the bottle to inspect the label. “What _is_ this? Holy shit, this is not the seven quid bottle from Tesco.”

Eve shakes her head sagely. It isn’t. 

Other Eve eyes her for a moment before shrugging. “I have no idea how you can afford whatever fortune this no doubt costs, but I’m not complaining.” 

“Good call.”

Other Eve snorts as she takes in the room. “Also, where the hell are we? This living room is, like, the size of my entire flat.”

Eve doesn’t know about _that_. But also, that was a sad-ass flat. “Mm.”

Other Eve eyes her. “Are you enjoying playing the cryptic, all-knowing elder?”

“Very much.” 

Other Eve sighs. “Must be nice.” She tips her head back against the cushions, and Eve can see the pronounced bags under her eyes. 

She really _is_ going through it. Hmm. How old is she? “How old are you?”

Other Eve doesn’t bother opening her eyes. “Thirty-five.”

Oh. _Oh_. “That was a...fun year.”

“If you call getting repeatedly ambushed, stalked, and harassed by a serial killer assassin who is both obsessed with you and also pissed at you because you’ve apparently been visiting her for most of her life but don’t remember any of it because none of it has happened for you yet, then yeah, it’s been a _blast_.”

Eve winces. Well, when you put it like _that._ “Well, yeah, but you got some really nice clothes out of it?"

Other Eve gives her a truly horrible look, and yeah, she wasn’t too amused when Villanelle used it on her back in the day either.

“You’re awfully blase about all this. I am being _stalked_ by an _assassin_.”

Eve decides to maybe not mention that she is presently living with said assassin. (And that, if we’re being technical, Other Eve is currently sitting in Villanelle’s spot.) 

“Um...well, yes, that did happen, and it did suck, but, you know, things have a way of, um, working out, you know?” She caps this stirring speech with a nervous chuckle.

Other Eve looks unimpressed. Eve can’t blame her. “Remind me never to go into motivational speaking.”

“Okay, okay, look. You’ve already visited her once, right? When she’s a teenager in Russia.”

“Yes, and it was creepy as fuck.” Other Eve grimaces. “She’s possibly sleeping with her teacher.”

Eve, ever the diplomat, reads the room and carefully does not mention the time Villanelle castrates and kills said teacher’s husband in a bid to win her heart. “Okay, well, never mind that. Look, I’ll just tell you: now that they’ve started they won’t stop. Like, at all.”

Other Eve stares at her. “You mean…”

“Yeah, this is definitely not a twice-a-lifetime thing. More like a twice-a-month thing.” She waves her hands in an optimistically cheery gesture. “Yay?”

Other Eve doesn’t seem to share the sentiment, judging from the way her hands come up to cover her face and somewhat muffle the stream of “oh my god”s currently being emitted. 

Eve is nothing if not persistent, though, and so bravely soldiers on for another attempt. More to the point, this time. “Look, we’re the same person. Need I remind you.”

This doesn’t get Other Eve to uncover her face, but does at least get her to pause the vocal freakout. Eve takes it as progress. “It’s easy and tempting to lean into whatever Villanelle is doing to fuck with you and just focus on that. Since she does do it a lot, and does it well, admittedly.” 

She waits for Other Eve to look at her. “But let’s not pretend that you’re not kind of into it.” She doesn’t miss the way Other Eve’s shoulders stiffen. “Sorry, but, same person, remember?” She leans in. “And I remember perfectly well how equally fixated I was. Just with less murder. You want to know...everything about her. Well, looks like your freak genetic quirk picked up on that. It’s doing you a solid, practically.”

Other Eve looks like she wants to argue, but at Eve’s raised brow lets out a groan. “I _hate_ getting lectured by myself.”

Eve nods solemnly. “I know.”

This time she doesn’t bother hiding her grin when Other Eve glares at her. 

After a moment, Other Eve sighs. “So what are you saying exactly? Let the psychopath into my flat so that she can decide whether to kiss or kill me?”

“Look, it’s not...conventional, obviously, but we have been visiting her for, from her perspective, a large chunk of her life. Now that she’s finally met you, can you blame her for getting a little excited? Wanting to fill in all the blanks? And she won’t kill you, okay.” Other Eve shoots her a look, and she amends, “She might let you _think_ she’s going to kill you, though.”

Other Eve stares at her for a long moment before snorting abruptly. “Sounds like a keeper.”

“Yeah.” And oh shit, there must be way too much genuine sentiment in that single syllable, because Other Eve is giving her a look filled with growing suspicion.

“What aren’t you telling—”

And then, because of course it does, the front door unlocks, and Villanelle strides in, large paper bag clutched in one arm and, because she’s Villanelle, a bouquet in the other. 

Eve’s stomach takes this moment to give a very poorly timed, very audible grumble. Sorry, but, gnocchi. 

Villanelle stops abruptly at the sight of the two of them. “Eve! And…” She looks at Other Eve. “Eve?”

Other Eve appears to be having difficulty with this development, judging from the way she’s shot to her feet, wine bottle still clutched in her hand as she slowly steps backwards, head shaking. “No... _no_.” 

Villanelle gives her a puzzled smile that shifts into a look of pure consternation as she turns to Eve. Eve gives a helpless shrug. “Um...Villanelle, this is Eve, who has very recently met you, and is, um, a bit overwhelmed by your...attentions.”

Villanelle blinks at her for a second before understanding dawns, and she grins at Other Eve, who is currently having some sort of internal meltdown. “Oh, Eve! It is so lovely to see you.” She looks Other Eve up and down. “Wow. You look... _great_.” Her smile turns wolfish. “Let me guess. Thirty-five?”

“This cannot be happening.” 

Eve knows the feeling. “Yeah, I can understand why you might be a bit, uh, confused—”

“You’re living with our _stalker!_ Stalker _assassin!_ ”

Villanelle pouts. “Hello, I am right here. And I was just trying to spend time with you, Eve! You were playing very hard to get!”

Eve has to suppress the very inappropriate urge to laugh. Her life is either black comedy or complete farce, she cannot decide.

“You are making my life _hell!_ ”

“Yes, I like you very much, too.”

Other Eve looks like she’s about to either charge Villanelle or actually pass out, so Eve hastily intercedes: “Okay, look, I know this is a lot, and I still can’t break the rules and explain much, but...this will all make sense. Eventually. Just...give her a chance, okay?”

Other Eve stops and looks at her, mouth opening to deliver a no doubt heated speech, but suddenly bends at the waist, a hand reaching up to her head. And then she is gone.

The wine bottle rolls lazily on the ground, the last dregs slowly leaking onto the hardwood.

Eve blinks. Is that _really_ what she looks like when she goes?

“...Wow.” Eve turns to see Villanelle staring at the spot where Other Eve was standing. “We were...we were so _cute_ , Eve.” She sighs wistfully. “Those crazy kids. Young love is really something."

Aaand yup, this is about what she expected. 

Villanelle turns to Eve. Holds up the bag. “But anyway. Hungry?”

“God, you’re sexy.”

Later, after they’ve each finished hoovering down their pasta (Eve was _really_ hungry, and Villanelle is just not a neat eater on the best of days), Villanelle turns to her, from her reclaimed spot on the sofa. “Eve.”

“Hmm?” Eve is mostly in a food coma at this point, eyes shut.

“Was I...did I really make your life hell back then?”

This manages to jerk her out of her daze, and she looks over to see Villanelle staring into her lap, eyebrows furrowed. “Vil, _no_.”

Villanelle doesn’t look convinced. “Eve, I broke into your flat, like, a ton of times."

“Okay, yes—”

“And kept following you home from work.”

“Well—”

“And sending you inappropriate postcards.”

“Villanelle—”

“And mailing you random gifts.”

“I didn’t mind those, actually. Especially the cake.” Eve smiles at her, but Villanelle just looks away, the line between her eyebrows growing more pronounced. 

“Hey,” Eve says, reaching over and taking her hand. She waits for Villanelle to look at her before saying, “Okay, yes, you were...intense. It was a lot, especially in the first few months. I didn’t really know how to deal with it.”

“Oh.” There is a great deal packed into this syllable.

“ _But_ ,” Eve continues. “Even then, it also made me feel...so awake. So alive. More than even when I’m time-traveling. I was stressed, but I was...really, _really_ into it. Even if I couldn’t quite admit it.” She tugs playfully on Villanelle’s hand. “And we obviously figured it out, didn’t we? Or am I hallucinating this conversation right now?”

“I know, but, I just…” Villanelle sighs, leaning back. “I was so excited. I had been waiting so long and suddenly there you were, at my fingertips. I had all this pent-up energy that I hadn’t even realized was there. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I wanted to know you and wanted you to know me and there was just so much. And also,” here her voice gets a little sheepish, “I was a little mad at you. For not telling me.”

“So you sent me lipstick with a razor blade in it and hid my mail and put all my CDs away incorrectly. Among other things.”

Villanelle winces. “Um, yes.”

Eve sighs dramatically. “Well, you may have had the courting instinct of a twelve year old boy—” she grins at Villanelle’s squawk of outrage, “—but you _are_ pretty hot, so I’ve learned to live with—”

She breaks off with a laugh as Villanelle lunges at her, intent on showing her exactly the extent and development of her “courting instincts.”

It takes some time, but Eve finds, by the end, that she is convinced. Thoroughly so.

  
  


**Villanelle is 5, Eve is 37**

She can see stars. 

And this isn’t a metaphor, mercifully. She is laying outside, under a sky filled with countless points of light. It’s kind of beautiful, actually. She’s not usually one to stop and smell the roses, or admire the stars, or whatever. 

It does rule out London and most places in Connecticut, though. The light pollution would never allow for this kind of tableau. 

Eve sits up. She is, she realizes, in some kind of small garden, and yes, that _is_ dirt and a number of stubby weeds stabbing her bare skin. Lovely. Mercifully, there is also a clothesline strung up not too far away, and in short order she’s wearing some kind of lumpy sweater and ill-fitting pants. It’s not freezing here, wherever here is, but the night is definitely cool. 

The rest of the clothing on the line is...not odd, per se, but definitely dated, and feels distinctly un-British. Or American, for that matter. 

So, by that process of elimination, Russia it is, then. And a decent bit in the past, if she has to guess. 

She turns to the faint sound of a television program she’s been hearing, and realizes it’s coming from the small, squat house in front of the garden. 

Eve weighs her options. A TV confirms the house is occupied, obviously, so trying to sneak in is probably a no-go, especially with how small the place is. And it’s not really that cold out here, especially with the warm clothes she has on, and she’s not starving or anything either. Better to just wait around out here and hope she goes back soon.

But, still. She can’t ignore the niggling curiosity in the back of her head. If she’s in Russia, which she is, as the now-clearer sound of the TV program confirms, then she’s by default near Villanelle. 

But she’s never seen this house. Not that she knows of, anyway. And judging by the startling clarity of the night sky, she’s not in a big city right now, or anywhere near one. 

As it always does in the end, when it comes to Villanelle, her curiosity wins. She wants to know. 

Slowly, she creeps closer to the house, approaching the window she can see by the back door. 

The sound of the TV grows louder, mixed in with other, fainter noises of an inhabited house: clinking of dishware, creaking of wood.

She reaches the window, and cautiously, making as little sound as possible, looks in. 

A small living room greets her, decorated in somewhat mismatched furniture that seems as dated as her clothing. A boxy TV sits in a corner, playing the nighttime news program she’s been hearing. Partially visible is the kitchen off to the side, a pot steaming on the stove. 

A large assortment of framed photos cover the walls, and though Eve can’t make them out in great detail she notices the same woman appearing in many of them, sometimes with a man or two children but most often by herself. It’s a bit odd, actually — who hangs up that many solo shots of themselves?

Her attention is shifted from this by a sudden shout, and her eyes grow wide as a child runs into view. 

She is cute, brunette and in a dress that Eve thinks might be homemade. She drops onto the rug in front of the TV, holding a doll in her outstretched arms. 

Not a moment later another child trundles in, a little boy who looks even younger than the girl. Even at this distance Eve can tell they are siblings, their features startlingly similar. 

He runs up to the girl, sitting down next to her and watching her ministrations to the doll with rapt attention. The girl, for her part, ignores him entirely. 

Until he tries to reach in and touch the doll. Without hesitating, the girl rears back and, with shocking intensity and immediacy for a child, clocks him in the face.

Eve gasps audibly before clapping her hands over her mouth and ducking out of view. Inside, the boy starts to cry at the top of his lungs.

Well, that answers some questions. She thought sixteen year old Oksana was the youngest she was ever going to see the girl. Clearly, she was wrong.

She doesn’t dare look in again so soon, but can hear the aftermath unfold quite clearly, anyway: the little boy, who must be Oksana’s brother Pyotr — _he was annoying and followed me around a lot_ — still screaming his head off, the approaching footsteps of an adult. 

It’s only when she hears an adult woman’s voice that her curiosity once again wins and she cautiously raises her head just enough to see in. 

A woman, her back turned to the window, is talking sternly to Oksana — who is ignoring her as she did her brother, focusing entirely on the doll. The longer Oksana fails to react, the louder the woman gets, her tone sharpening. Finally, she snaps, bending down and roughly grabbing Oksana by the arm, hauling her to her feet. The doll falls to the ground

Oksana glares at her, then, and Eve shivers at the very real menace in that little face. The woman is undeterred though, and continues to shout, Oksana glaring icily at her all the while. Poor Pyotr, meanwhile, seems to have been mostly forgotten by both of them, sitting miserably off to the side as tears continue to trickle down his cheeks. 

Eve is not sure where this is going to go — Oksana may be a child but her stubbornness clearly is already fully developed — when the woman _shakes_ her. Very real anger sparks within Eve; while little Oksana’s behavior obviously wasn’t acceptable, she is still a _child._

Eve grabs the window sill, not even sure what she is about to do — and is saved by doing something probably very stupid by the arrival of another adult on the scene, a tall, blond man who is scowling at the woman. The woman instantly releases Oksana, who doesn’t hesitate to run to the man — as she does, the woman turns to stand in profile, glaring fiercely, and Eve sees with a jolt that she is the same woman who features so frequently in the many framed photos on the walls. Tatiana. Oksana’s mother. 

Which makes the man Mikhail, Oksana’s beloved father who Villanelle speaks fondly of to this day. He scoops up Oksana, holding her protectively, and soon he and Tatiana are having a heated argument of their own. 

Finally, Mikhail turns to leave, taking Oksana with him. Eve can see both the look of smug satisfaction on Oksana’s face and the red mark on her arm where her mother grabbed her from where she stands. 

As he goes, Tatiana stills, hands coming down to rest at her sides. Although Eve can still only see her in profile, it’s enough to see the way her eyes follow Oksana, the heated anger from her argument being replaced with something much deeper. Much darker. And terribly, terribly, cold.

Eve feels a chill of foreboding run down her back.

Just before Mikhail disappears from view, Oksana turns in his arms, presumably to shoot a last look at her mother. But her eyes first look to the window directly in her line of sight, and they widen as she makes direct eye contact with Eve. 

Eve gets a head rush as she ducks, and loses her balance, falling the last few inches. Her last thought before she hits the ground is to hold Villanelle extra close that night.

She’s gone before she ever touches the dirt. 

  
  


**Villanelle is 25, Eve is 35**

She realizes, distantly, that her heart is pounding. She feels very warm. She thinks sweat may be beading at her temples. There is a roaring in her ears. 

Is she happy or mad? Betrayed or vindicated? Heartbroken or made complete? 

Is she...is she _amused_? 

She doesn’t know! She, as a rule, doesn’t do emotions. 

And yet, here she is. 

Her cheeks are wet, she realizes. Amazing. When did she last cry? _Is_ she crying?

All these emotions, Eve! All these emotions that only Eve makes her feel! 

What she _is_ , is overcome.

Sitting before her on the bed is her laptop, glowing with an innocent white light. On the screen, loaded from a flash drive Konstantin grudgingly handed over a half hour before along with the news that she is officially on government radars, is an unassuming photo of one Eve Park — briefly Polastri, lately of Stamford, Connecticut, now of London. 35. Bachelor’s degree in criminal psychology at U Conn, master’s at Yale. Lives in Ealing, London. No siblings. No children. A dead father and distant mother.

An employee of the British Secret Intelligence Service. _MI6_. 

Eve, _her_ Eve, the confidante and closest thing she has to a friend, who _kissed_ her, is an honest-to-God _spy_. 

A spy tasked with finding _her_.

And she never told her. 

You are so naughty, Eve!

_You’re gonna be pissed._

Yes, Eve. Yes, Villanelle thinks she is. She likes to know things such as these, in advance. She does not like unpleasant surprises. She does not like being misled. 

Nine years, Eve. You could not find a moment to mention your profession? The wonderfully unique circumstances that bring the two of them together?

_You know I never tell anyone anything. Even you._

You always do stick to your guns, Eve. It is one of the many things Villanelle likes about her.

...It _is_ flattering, in a way. The MI6 agent charged with finding the elusive, faceless assassin who has been carving a path of blood through Europe ends up so taken with said assassin — as clearly Eve must be, for this happen — as to trigger her strange, hardly-believable condition, and tumble her through time, again and again, for _years,_ into the assassin’s life.

It is very romantic.

And there is a delicious irony to it, as well. All this time Villanelle has tried to find Eve — unsuccessfully, but doggedly. Squirreling away every spare detail Eve carelessly tosses out. 

There are more Eves of Korean descent in America than you would think. 

And all this time, Eve knew that they would ultimately meet because _Eve_ was trying to find _her_.

_I don’t know, maybe you’ll think it’s funny._

Not funny, Eve. _Fated_. 

Villanelle picks up the laptop, brings the screen close to her face. The slightly pixelated, unflattering photo of Eve, clearly lifted from a government registry, stares back. Villanelle has already memorized the few bullet points below it, is perfectly ready to expend her not inconsiderable resources to find out all the rest.

And she will. She’ll find out every single thing there is.

Eve has had so much lead time, after all. Nine whole years of it. It is only fair. 

They have so much to catch up on! And Villanelle wants to know everything. Every detail Eve has stubbornly kept from her for all this time.

Eve is in her life now, for real. And Villanelle can finally be in hers. 

Something in her chest loosens at the thought, a warm glow, full of relief, that makes Villanelle think it’s been knotted inside of her for longer than she’s ever realized. Another thing to discuss with Eve. 

_Just don’t be mad for too long, okay?_

She smiles. 

She hopes Eve — _her_ Eve — visits soon. She has so much to tell her!

But first, she thinks, it is time for another trip to London. There is a flat in Ealing she would like to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eve is in for a fun time 🙃
> 
> Anyway, this AU remains v fun to write. Hope y'all enjoyed, thanks for reading and would love to hear your thoughts if so inclined!
> 
> I’m not super Online these days but am @biologicalimperative on tumblr, come say hi!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! It turns out inspiration and free time conspired to produce another installment sooner than I was expecting. 
> 
> I'd like to thank Phoebe Bridgers for making this chapter possible (not to be confused with Phoebe Waller-Bridge, though PWB of course warrants eternal kudos for building the sandbox in which we are all playing).

**Villanelle is 25, Eve is 47**

It hurts. It _really_ hurts. 

Eve wanted to be inside her ( _wants_ , now is the time for honesty, if nothing else), but this is not exactly what Villanelle had in mind. She’s not sure if it was what Eve was envisioning either — right up until, of course, it was. 

A sharp throb of pain from her side, accompanied by a fresh swelling of blood that quickly soaks into the ruined, darkening cloth of her shirt, disrupts this train of thought, and she staggers on the sidewalk, slumping against the nearest building and gritting her teeth around a harsh exhalation.

Move. Keep moving. To stop is to die.

And Villanelle refuses to die, not when she and Eve are making so much progress in their relationship, have just peeled back a whole new layer. To fail, to fall at such a momentous juncture is unacceptable. 

Summoning her will, she heaves upright and stumbles on, stopping only to swig a homeless man’s half-full bottle of vodka and steal his jacket with nary a backwards glance. 

She makes it to the main street, panting. Blood continues to seep around her fingers, her thought process starting to meander as it gets harder to focus even as adrenalin thrums in her veins.

Hospital. She needs to get to a hospital. And to do that, she...she needs...a car. Right. Yes. A car.

Villanelle eyes the cars and buses whizzing past her. Any of them will do. She’s never been above a bit of grand theft auto, but as it is in her current state she’s not sure she could manage grand theft tricycle. And though getting taxis to stop for her usually happens without conscious thought, something tells her that her, ah, _disheveled_ appearance may necessitate much more than that if she is to get to an emergency room before she actually bleeds out. 

Just when she is considering something deeply reckless and entirely inadvisable, a sudden blaring of horns catches her attention, and she looks over to see cars swerving out of the way as what appears to be an ancient, bright red Peugeot hurtles towards her at speeds decidedly past the legal limit.

Her first thought is that it is the Twelve’s cleaners, caught up with her and determined to finish the job, but no, they were in a much more lowkey vehicle, and besides that would surely be driving with much more...finesse than whoever is behind the wheel of this ridiculous vehicle. 

She watches it approach, somewhat fatalistically. She is out in the wide open, and at this current moment, as helpless as someone like her can ever be. She cannot run, and the wound in her side is only bleeding more.

And sometimes you just have to see what will happen next.

The car swerves to the side of the road, _her_ side of the road, narrowly avoiding three other furious drivers in the process, and skids to a screeching halt directly in front of her, just shy of pulling onto the sidewalk entirely. 

Eve looks at her through the open window. “Get in.”

Villanelle stares at her for a moment before realizing that her mouth is hanging open, and closes it with a snap, trying to look suitably menacing even though she knows she’s more likely to induce a call for an ambulance than the cops in her current state. “You stabbed me! This is _your_ fault!”

Eve has the gall to look impatient. “Yeah, like a decade ago. And I’m also here to get you to the hospital before you bleed out, so…”

For the first time Villanelle notices that this is very much not the Eve who was in her apartment five minutes ago. This one is visibly older, with gray in her hair and some more lines around her eyes. Actually, she is the oldest Eve that Villanelle thinks she’s ever met. It’s...nice. Yes, that is the word. Nice to see that Eve makes it at least this far, continues to share her captivating existence with the world for years to come.

Not so nice is the strange, oversized, deeply ugly men’s tracksuit she’s in — how unfortunate that the cleaners have likely taken all the robes Villanelle has specially bought for Eve from her apartment with the rest of her wardrobe; everything else Villanelle has ever seen her wear has been bad and sad.

She’s snapped from her admittedly wandering thoughts by Eve leaning towards her, brows drawn down. “Hey! Villanelle, stare at me later, get in _now_.”

Villanelle blinks, and does as she’s told.

She lets out a gasp of pain as she sinks into the passenger seat, and Eve glances at her worriedly as she pulls away from the curb. “Just hold on.” 

Villanelle manages a smile, though it probably looks more like a grimace than anything else. “You...you have a very odd way of...doing things, you know.”

Eve lets out a huff of amusement even as she, rather recklessly, swerves around a slow-moving bus. “Yeah, well. Everything has its appointed time and all that jazz.”

“If this is your way of...telling me that was not our appointed time to have sex but instead for...me to get stabbed, I’d rather not—” she stops short with a hiss as her side _throbs_ , letting out a low groan as the world grows dim for a second. 

Eve throws another look at her, eyes widening at what she sees. “Jesus, you’re getting pale.” She reaches down to her feet, tosses something to Villanelle. “Use this, keep putting pressure on it.”

Villanelle takes the grimy towel, streaked with what looks like motor oil, with great reluctance, but at Eve’s glare pouts and holds it to the bloody gash at her side. Unsurprisingly, this does not do much to abate the pain. “It hurts, Eve.”

This time, when Eve looks at her, Villanelle thinks she sees, through her blurring vision, a certain tenderness. “I know, sweetheart. Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”

The way she says this, coupled with her expression, reminds Villanelle of the last time Eve looked at her like that, when they were watching movies and Eve kissed her, right there on the sofa in the apartment Villanelle just fled. The thought makes her sad. “I wanted to be with you, Eve. And you stabbed me.” 

There is a pause. She watches through half-shut eyes as Eve stares out at the road, eyebrows furrowed, until sighing abruptly. “I know. And yes, I did.”

This response manages to spur a spark of indignation in Villanelle, despite the way everything is fading around her. “Are you not going to apologize?”

Eve looks at her, then, and Villanelle shivers at the depth of emotion there. She would not be able to parse any of it even were she fully conscious; such analysis has never been her strong suit (or, truth be told, remotely of any interest, up until now). “No, baby, I’m not. I think you know why I did it, anyway.”

Villanelle doesn’t reply to this, partially because she can’t and partially because she has the faintest sense that, were she to inspect her own feelings — a miserable, thankless task — she’d find that Eve is right. 

She barely registers as they turn into a driveway and come to a sharp stop. She thinks she hears a seatbelt disengage, a car door open, and then Eve is opening her door and leaning over her. Villanelle forces her eyes open then and stares at Eve. “Do you even think about it?”

Her voice is faint, thready, but she knows Eve hears her from the way she pauses before slinging an arm around her back and another round her legs to half-drag, half-carry her out. Villanelle doesn’t fight it as her eyes slide shut once more, the last of her strength leaving her.

She is almost unconscious as Eve lowers her to the ground by the car, but she doesn’t miss Eve’s reply, spoken into her ear. “All the time.”

The last thing she feels before she surrenders to the merciful darkness rising up around her is lips, pressed gently against her forehead. It is a soothing contrast to the shrill wailing of an alarm somewhere, the cold concrete under her, the warm blood leaving her.

And then, nothing at all.

  
  


**Villanelle is 36, Eve is 37**

It smells rich in here. 

Really, how else does one describe the smell of luxury designer goods, that distinct scent of quality fabrics and leather, and the subtle, expensive perfume wafting over everything? 

It’s not a scent Eve was previously overly-acquainted with — not that she was seeking it out, either. Primark and Uniqlo generally manage to cover the majority of her clothing needs, and she’s never seen the need to venture anywhere else or, for that matter, quite gotten the allure of dropping a few hundred (or thousand) pounds on coats and tops that will do the exact same job as her existing wardrobe, without the massive markup. 

And yes, she’s had this debate with Villanelle at least thirty-two times in the last couple of years, and no, has not yielded. Villanelle may have thrown every aspect of Eve’s life in flux, but damn it, if she’s going to give up just about everything in her old life and throw caution to the wind, she’s going to do it in her Uniqlo raincoat, and she doesn’t care how much Villanelle whines.

But that doesn’t mean she hasn’t become quite familiar with all the trappings of that world — Villanelle has made sure of _that_ much, at least.

Like, for instance, what a ridiculously cushy dressing room in a very high-end designer boutique may smell like, for instance.

Usually, this would trigger a surge of affection (and only a small eye-roll) for the somewhat reformed assassin that Eve has found herself inextricably tied to (“reformed” is a touch generous, but really, who’s keeping score), but at the moment it just irritates her further. 

She looks around the dressing room — and this is a far cry from the glorified closets that usually define changing rooms, this is very much a _room_ , with a chic little sofa and table, both strewn with clothing — and grabs the nearest ridiculously overpriced dress and starts to pull it on, scowling fiercely, cursing every overpaid, overconfident assassin that has ever entered her life (it’s a short list, to be fair, but still longer than most). 

And all too predictably, the door opens, and Villanelle glides in, flute of champagne in hand. Eve can barely make her out — the dress is trickier to put on then originally apparent and she is currently wrestling with it, trying to escape its confines as it attempts to strangle her — but could positively identify the other woman from the barest flash of her hair in a grainy photograph (and has done just that in times past). 

She stops short at the sight of Eve, who no doubt presents a more than amusing image, and Eve can hear her turn and address whatever harried sales clerk is following her in before closing the door in their face. 

A rustle of cloth, light steps as she walks to Eve. A chuckle. “Hi, Eve. I don’t think you’re wearing that dress correctly.”

Eve continues tugging ineffectively at the dress, in absolutely no mood to entertain any version of Villanelle. 

“Eve?”

She still doesn’t reply, and after a moment, she hears a soft clink of glass, and then calm hands are on her, stilling her. Eve considers struggling, but some small part of her mind notes dryly that that would make _her_ the childish one here; she really can’t have that at the current moment, and gives no resistance, sagging. 

Those same calm hands tug gently here and there, and then her head is mercifully free, and she takes a relieved breath free of homicidal designer wear. She’s never missed her turtlenecks more.

She gets her first unconstricted look at her erstwhile savior and maddening subject of her thoughts; Villanelle looks back at her, amused. “Hey, stranger. Couture generally responds better to a softer touch, you know.” 

Eve blinks, momentarily taken aback. The Villanelle before her is... _old_. Okay, not like _old_ old, but older than Eve has seen her in years, certainly older than Eve’s Villanelle. She must be in her mid-thirties, probably not too far off Eve’s age, and isn’t _that_ weird.

While Eve can and does visit the future, she visits the past much more often — and she really doesn’t have the energy to muse over the psychological implications of _that_. And when she does visit the future, it’s usually to see herself (even if Villanelle strides in as a guest star from time to time, as was the case in that uniquely hellish visit to her future self soon after the assassin entered her life).

“Um...am I here too?”

Villanelle arches a brow at her, but doesn’t pretend to not understand the uniquely Eve-relevant question. “No, just me.” She gestures vaguely at the room. “You are working right now. I am having me-time.”

And isn’t that just super. Because it’s never been _just_ Villanelle before. 

Her condition _would_ fling her into the future, to visit some future Villanelle, right as she is in the midst of being absolutely furious with her. (The thought occurs to her, not for the first time, that her condition has a sick sense of humor. And yes, she is projecting some sort of sentience on her uncontrollable time-travel, because the thought that she is doing this to _herself_ , even unconsciously, is honestly more than she can handle right now.)

Villanelle is older, certainly, but her clearly excellent genes and top-shelf skin-care have done her good, and she honestly doesn’t look dramatically different than she does at 29. If anything, she just looks even more self-assured, and isn’t _that_ just maddening. 

While she’s been examining Villanelle, the woman has been examining her right back. “You look amazing. I mean, you are beautiful at any age, but wow.” She tilts her head as she continues her inspection. “Thirties, I’m guessing? You look how you did when I first met you...or the second time, I suppose.” She smiles cheekily (the time-travel inside jokes apparently never lose their appeal). 

This exact smile almost never fails to triggers a responding one from Eve (though its near cousin, Villanelle’s trademark smirk, usually makes Eve want to smack her, but that’s neither here nor there), but at this current moment, together with the reminder of the time-travel and just how damn long they’ve known each other in one form or another, it just refuels her anger all over again, and she scoffs. 

“Yes, time-travel, it’s so hard to keep track of everything, where will I pop up next, haha, hilarious.”

Villanelle’s eyebrows shoot up, and in the pause that follows Eve takes the opportunity to skirt around her and go sit on the couch, grabbing the half-full flute of champagne on the table as she goes and draining it in a single gulp. (Petty? Her? Never. Hey, at least she didn’t smash it on the floor. And that’s what we call _growth_.)

Villanelle turns to her, brows still raised, and Eve crossly folds her arms across her chest, refusing to feel or even look abashed, no matter how childish one could maybe theoretically argue that she is being. _She’s_ the injured party here, dammit!

“So…” Villanelle says, drawing the word out. “How are things at home?”

“Great. Amazing. Couldn’t be better.”

“Sure.” Villanelle takes a few tentative steps towards her, and once it seems clear that Eve will not actually attack her as she has been known to do in certain times in their history, closes the distance to the sofa and sits safely at the end opposite Eve, inspecting her with a trademarked complete lack of subtlety — though there is perhaps a touch of nervous caution there as well. 

Eve feels her stare on her, but just continues to sit there, stewing and thinking unkind thoughts about blonde, trigger-happy assassins and stubbornly staring into middle-distance. 

“So…” Villanelle says again. “What did I do?”

This, finally, prompts Eve to break her determined stare, looking over to see the other woman smiling crookedly. “Sorry?”

“Oh, come on, Eve. I am the only one who gets you this worked up.” Villanelle’s smile turns a bit rueful. “I am very good at being a dick, or so I’ve been told.”

Eve rolls her eyes. On one hand, it is _so_ Villanelle for the woman to instantly assume she is the cause of Eve’s ire, or that she can trigger it like no one else; on the other, well, she’s right. And at the end of the day, who else in Eve’s truly absurd life is she going to talk to about this if not the glamorous, infuriatingly beautiful assassin who has managed to inject herself into every part of Eve’s life, past, present, and future?

Honestly, she’s lucky Eve loves her. (And yes, she loves Eve right back and Eve is fortunate too, practices her gratitude affirmations every morning blah blah she’s mad at her right now okay?)

So she relents. A bit. “You _are_ a dick.”

Villanelle looks wounded. 

Oh for god’s sake. “Sometimes. When you want to be.”

The smile returns. “Yeah. Sorry. Now tell me what happened, and then you and I will discuss your strategy for explaining the depth of my wrongness to me when you go back.”

Eve has to laugh. “Should I be pleased you’re assuming you’re the one who fucked up?”

“It is not that big of a leap to make,” Villanelle replies with a shrug. “You are in your late thirties, I would say, so you are either still terrified of me and also furious, both at me for obvious reasons and at yourself for being into it, _or_ we are now making some progress with each other and you are no longer terrified but still sometimes furious, and I am very bad always at learning how to be in a normal relationship.”

She takes a breath after this little speech before getting comfortable on the sofa, laying an arm along the back and apparently content to patiently wait for the flabbergasted look on Eve’s face to resolve.

It may take a bit. Eve gapes at her, aware that she is and unable to do anything else. Okay, so. Not only is this Villanelle older, she also appears to, in the years since she charged into Eve’s flat and life, have performed some introspection. Introspection! Villanelle!

“Um. Wow.”

“I’ve thought about this.”

“That’s an understatement.” Eve turns to fully face the other woman and considers her for a moment. Huh. A reflective Villanelle. But maybe Eve shouldn’t be so surprised; she knows better than anyone that despite how she may present, and the many labels thrown onto her, Villanelle is a thinking, feeling, complex _person_ , even if she may experience some emotions a bit differently and not always know how to express them.

Eve would be the first to agree that Villanelle as she is in Eve’s time is not teenage Oksana, or even the freshly minted assassin and employee of the Twelve, focused entirely on her kills and indulging her whims. So why would she expect this older, wiser Villanelle, sitting across from her to have remained static and unchanged?

So it is with some chagrin that she says, “Okay, yes, I’m thirty-seven, and, well, I guess you and I are in the second part of your little timeline. It’s...good.” Moments flash unbidden through her mind, of her and Villanelle being together, going on dates, existing in this little bubble that only the two of them really understand. Of them _trying_. “It’s generally really good. But neither of us are perfect, obviously, and sometimes, there are, uh…”

“Fights? Arguments? Misunderstandings?” Villanelle pipes up helpfully.

“Sure. Any of the above.”

“And this specific argument is about…”

Eve runs an irritated hand through her hair (though a grudging flash of amusement still fights its way through as she catches Villanelle following the motion with her eyes; glad to see some things, at least, never change.) “Oh, god, what isn’t it about? Us. Your work. The time-travel. Your _goddamned_ stubbornness and overconfidence.”

Villanelle laughs. “Wow, Eve. Tell me how you really feel.”

“Sorry, I—“ Eve pauses as a renewed flood of anger surges through her as she relives the details of the argument. “Actually, you know what? I’m not sorry. You’re acting like a total asshole, taking wildly dangerous jobs when you don’t even need to, not being fully transparent with me about them, and then having the— the _audacity_ to use my time-travel as a fucked-up justification for why I shouldn’t be concerned for you, because we ‘both know you’ll survive,’ which is bullshit, and also, can I say, a major dick move. You _dick_.”

She becomes aware, in the rather awkward pause that follows, that she’s breathing rather hard and glaring intensely at Villanelle, and makes a halfhearted effort to temper both; Villanelle, to her credit, does not appear to be taking it too personally, mostly unruffled though her eyes did widen a bit the more incensed Eve became. 

Eve refuses to let herself feel abashed, even if she can’t quite bring herself to meet Villanelle’s eyes after that little outburst. She _is_ pissed, and also just upset, and while the Villanelle before her may not be the one she’s actively upset _with_ , she was at one point in time, so she’s just going to have to deal with it. 

“Um…” Villanelle says cautiously, once she’s deemed a safe amount of time to pass. “Yeah. I am being a dick. Sorry.”

Eve’s eyes fly to hers. She wasn’t expecting _that_. While her Villanelle isn’t quite the utterly unapologetic, remorseless killing machine she once was (or tried to be, anyway), it’s still rare to hear her freely admit unqualified guilt or fault. 

Villanelle smiles a bit at her expression. “Hey, I can admit when I’m being an asshole. If it helps, I knew even then that I was being one, I just didn’t know how not to be.”

Eve looks at her flatly. “Is this supposed to be an ‘it’s the thought that counts’ thing?”

“Who can I be an apologist for, if not myself?” At Eve’s wry expression, she hastily adds, “Uh, I’m still totally Team Eve here, though. Of course.”

“Uh huh.”

Villanelle smiles at her, and Eve thinks ruefully that it’s this exact warm feeling in her chest that smile provokes that continues to make it impossible to ever be mad at this woman for long.

(The problem, of course, is that Villanelle knows this, and, naturally, has no qualms exploiting it.)

“You need to tell her — uh, me— exactly what you’re thinking, Eve. I want to be with you, that will never change. But it was really hard for me to actually understand what that meant, or even the basic rules of a real, committed relationship. I don’t do well with loss of control, you know.”

“ _No_.” Eve gasps in mock shock.

Villanelle nods very seriously. “I am a hawk in the wind, Eve. I am used to soaring.”

“Sorry to, uh...shoot you down, then.” Eve frowns. “Or, I guess, tame you? Do people even hunt hawks? That seems like a bad idea. Like, that’s asking to get your eyes pecked out.”

Villanelle smoothly refocuses Eve’s wandering train of thought. “Okay, forget the metaphor. Basically, I really love you, and am trying to be good because I want to meet you in the middle, but I’m also freaking out about what feels like my power being taken away. Or my agency, whatever.”

“...But I don’t want to take away your power. I know exactly what you’re capable of. I think it’s _cool_ , for god’s sake. I just want you to be honest with me, and not take jobs just for the sake of taking them.”

Villanelle shrugs helplessly. “I know that now, of course, and I think I knew it then, but it was one thing to know and another to believe. Old habits die hard, you know.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“As for the, uh, other part...I’m sorry. It’s really shitty to use your condition against you. Less of an explanation for that, I was mad and scared and it’s right there and easy to use.”

Eve looks away. “Yeah. It is shitty. It’s also _dumb_ — I have no idea how any of this works, not really. Sample size of one, remember? Just because I have some indication of ages you reach in years to come doesn’t mean any of it is set in stone, or that, hello, you can’t be _hurt_. You dick.”

Villanelle just nods. 

Eve sighs. “Is this the part where you tell me you’re already feeling bad and waiting for me to come back so we can talk and make up, and to generally try to give you more time to pull your head out of your ass?”

Villanelle bites her lip, trying to hide a smile, and nods again.

Eve groans, tipping her head back on the sofa. “It is _so_ _annoying_ getting lectured by people in the future.”

“I know, right? Imagine getting visits starting at sixteen by this random gorgeous Asian lady who won’t tell you shit except to be patient, just be patient, we’ll definitely meet. It’s _awesome_.” 

“...Touché.” Eve heaves another sigh. “Okay, okay, you’ve made your point. Also, can I just say that you being the mature and emotionally intelligent one right now is freaking me out.”

“Eve. Please. Neither of us is the mature one.” 

“...You’re probably right.”

There’s a pause. Then, in a carefully casual tone: “So, most of these clothes are for you, actually. While you’re here do you want to model any of—“

“Not a chance.”

  
  


**Eve is 36, and 33**

She hasn’t been to this pub in a long time. Since Bill died, to be specific. This was their local, where they went after work too many times to count and bitched about Frank or Niko (Eve) or the pros and cons of fatherhood (Bill), often with Elena in tow. 

And then Villanelle killed him, and Eve doesn’t come here anymore. 

Involuntary visits courtesy her freak time-travel issues don’t count.

She’s lucky she showed up in the tiny closet the employees stuff their coats into; very few ways to play off appearing stark naked in the middle of a pub. For long minutes she considered just staying there, but one, it was _really_ cramped in there, and two, she can’t deny that she’s...curious. No way to know when this is, but if it’s in the past then it could mean...well. She has to know. 

And now she’s walking into the main space of the pub, having borrowed a coat sufficiently long enough that she won’t be fined for public indecency within two minutes of walking out. Hopefully no one will notice that she’s barefoot (and yes, she is internally wincing at every sticky step she takes, but her desire to know overpowers her disgust — and it’s not like she isn’t well-versed in running around barefoot in less than ideal spaces while time-traveling at this point). 

She stops on the periphery, unable to stop from scanning the little groups scattered through the dining room. He’s probably not here, she tells herself, heart in her throat. It’s almost certainly a totally random day, could even be in the future, _he’s not here_. 

Her eyes fall on a familiar figure, and her breath catches. She’d know the back of those shoulders anywhere, that balding head. 

He’s here. Bill’s here.

Suddenly, she is afraid. And guilty. And so, so fucking sad, the kind of deep-set grief that reaches down into your chest and _squeezes_. 

Bill was her best friend. It was perhaps in some ways an unlikely friendship, the two of them coming from wildly different worlds — he, a good old English boy raised in a fairly standard English middle class household, she, Korean and American and British and largely raised by a single parent. 

And it’s true that they perhaps would’ve never crossed paths were it not for work, maybe wouldn’t have hit it off the same way even if they did. But it doesn’t matter. Because they did, and for ten years were such good friends that people regularly assumed she was the other woman in his marriage. (This thought still manages to bring a smile to her face.)

Maybe it’s for this last reason that Villanelle killed him. 

Or maybe just seeing them laughing together was enough, after being rebuffed by Eve so many times.

It’s not like she didn’t confront Villanelle, after. She did. And that confrontation turned into a confrontation about so many other things, from Villanelle’s rage at her alleged dishonesty and for not being the Eve she has known for so many years to Eve’s fury at the tempest Villanelle has unleashed in her life in the assassin’s quest to “get to know her.” 

And then that fight, um. Turned into other things. Things Eve does her best not to think about and wakes up every few nights, thighs squeezing together, as her dreams helpfully flesh out the details anyway.

Moving on.

So they argued. Viciously. Eve slapped her. Villanelle didn’t take too well to that. Other things happened. 

All of which culminated in Eve stabbing her.

So, yeah. They’ve talked. Just...not since then. Even if the burner phone Villanelle left in her flat on one of her many uninvited visits, with the promise that it can always be used to reach her, is getting harder and harder to ignore. 

Maybe it’s because Eve doesn’t really know what she wants from her. Maybe it’s because, when she’s not dreaming about...things, she’s dreaming of Bill choking on his own blood in her arms.

...

So anyway. Bill is here. That probably means she’s here too, not that Eve can see herself anywhere, and anyway it’s probably better for all of them if she just slips away and pretends none of this ever happened, just slips back to her time and gets blackout drunk alone in her flat—

Bill looks over, and sees her. 

Eve freezes, one foot already behind her. He squints at her confusedly, glancing outside, before understanding clears his expression and he smiles, waving for her to join him.

Oh god, no no no she’s not ready—

She forces a foot forward. And then another. And another. Because it’s Bill, and she never got to say goodbye. 

Bill smiles at her as she nears, gesturing at the stool opposite. “Well, hello there.” He hooks a thumb at the window. “You’re outside yelling at Niko on the phone right now. I was a bit confused.”

Eve belatedly notices that a very familiar purse is sitting on the stool, and she mechanically moves it onto the table before sinking into the seat, eyes never leaving him. 

Oh, Bill. Smiling kindly and understanding everything without having to be told and wonderfully alive. 

He leans in a little in that way he always did, and her heart clenches all over again. “So tell me, when are you coming from?” He eyes her with a frown and adds, “Also, are you quite alright?”

Eve forces a smile on her face, willing it to appear convincing. If there’s one thing she’s not gonna do right now it’s make Bill worried about her future, or, god forbid, his. She can’t change what happens, but she’ll be damned if she somehow clues him into his grim fate. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just surprised to see you here, I haven’t been here in a while.”

He studies her for a bit before nodding slowly. “Right.” He smiles suddenly. “You know, this is rather exciting. You haven’t visited me in, oh, at least eight or nine years, it must be.”

It was eight years ago, not too long after they first met and shortly after she told him the truth about her condition and frequent absences. She appeared in his townhouse, which, considering she was naked and Keiko wasn’t home, admittedly didn’t really help disprove the mistress rumors. 

She smiles at the memory. “God, yeah. That was, um, a nightmare, actually.” 

He bursts into laughter. “It really was, wasn’t it?”

Eve can only watch as he laughs. She hasn’t realized how much she’s just missed talking to him, even if it’s about nothing. 

Something of her emotions must show on her face, because his laughter fades, and he peers at her, “Alright, something is definitely going on with you, out with it.”

She hesitates. She obviously should just deny it and change the subject, but she finds that she desperately wants to tell him. Not about his death, obviously, but about Villanelle, this new person she’s met who she can’t stop thinking about. He’s the first person she would’ve told. Eve thinks that Bill would’ve liked her, and then she thinks that she’s done with the endless terrible fucking irony in her life, thank you. 

He pushes what is presumably outside Eve’s half finished pint towards her encouragingly. “Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad.”

He’s right. It’s worse. But okay, maybe if she’s careful and gets her phrasing just right… “Okay, okay. I’ve sort of...met someone. Um, not Niko.”

Oh shit, is this too early? She appears to still be with Niko, but Bill looks unmoved. “Yeah, sorry, your marriage appears to be, er, breaking up. God knows I hear enough about it.”

Oh. Well. That’s a relief. “Okay, well then. I sort of...meet someone new, eventually.”

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s good, right? Why do you sound so conflicted?”

“This person is like...no one I’ve ever met. Charming, funny as hell. Super attractive. They challenge me and make me feel like I’m becoming who I always really was but could never be.”

“My, my. Surely _that’s_ good?”

Honestly, Eve’s not sure about that. But that’s a separate topic. “Well, they can also be...difficult. Hard to get along with. They don’t really subscribe to typical social norms.”

He chuckles. “And you do?”

“Fuck off. This person is on a whole other level. But anyway, we didn’t actually get along at first, like at all, and both said and did some...hurtful things.”

This is both a vast understatement and impressive euphemism. Villanelle would laugh. Eve tries not to think about that and presses on. “Anyway, we had a major argument, like burn it to the ground level, and haven’t talked since. But I can’t stop thinking about...them.”

He nods sagely. “So it’s a bit messy, then.”

She lets out a laugh, only slightly tinged with hysteria. “Yeah. Yeah, you could say that.”

He takes a thoughtful sip of his pint, eyeing her over the rim. Eve tries not to fidget. Finally, he puts down the glass. “Well, look, obviously I don’t know the whole situation — and don’t think I’ve missed your interesting use of pronouns — but I have to say, Eve, what I’ve seen on your face as you talk about this person in the last two minutes is miles above anything I’ve ever seen or heard from you when you talk about Niko, and you’ve been married to him for _years_.” 

He pauses, perhaps to see if she’ll say anything, but continues on when she just looks at him. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite like this after someone. I do believe I’m seeing you head over heels for the very first time.”

Eve scoffs. “Oh, come off it.”

“I’m serious!” He leans in, intent. “Eve, I’ve known you for a decent amount of time, and I’ve only ever seen you this passionate and thoughtful about your women killers.”

He obviously means this lightly — how could he not — and so Eve just has to sit there, looking calm and not at all like she’s just been sucker punched.

Bill continues, warming to his subject. “It’s rare we meet people that make us feel like that. Now, I don’t know exactly what was said and done in this argument, but if you’re still thinking about this person, and you think... _they_ are still thinking about you, maybe you should reach out. The worst that’ll happen is it doesn’t go anywhere.”

That is absolutely _not_ the worst that can happen, but she takes his point. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.” 

He smiles at her. “Of course I am. Now, are we going to discuss who _they_ is?”

Honestly, Villanelle being a woman is the least of Eve’s concerns, and frankly part of her appeal — she just didn’t want to give Bill too many details, lest he overexcitedly spill something to the Eve outside and once again drag the drama of time-travel paradox back into her life. But seeing the interested glint in his eyes, she finds she cannot deny him this. “Yeah, well. It’s a woman. Surprise.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and he inclines his head to her, looking very impressed. “Eve! Good for you!” He smiles mischievously. “Have I ever told you about what I got up to in Berlin back in the day?”

Eve smiles, ignoring the way her eyes suddenly sting. “No, I don’t think you have.” She leans in, resting her chin in her hand and taking in his smiling face to store in her mind. “Tell me all about it.”

  
  


**Villanelle is 26, Eve is 36**

When she arrives back in her flat, shortly after, the first thing she does is cry. A lot. The wave of emotions that steadily built up in her the longer she sat across from Bill finally crashes over her, and she just huddles on her sofa for a bit.

The next thing she does is pull on real nightclothes, and lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s not a very interesting ceiling, but it manages to hold her attention just the same. 

After some minutes of this, she rolls off her bed with an irritated huff, before reaching under it and withdrawing a shoe box. From that shoe box emerges a simple flip phone. She stares at it, for longer than she stared at the ceiling. 

Finally, she turns the phone on. No messages, no missed calls. Not that she’s expecting any. There’s only one saved number in the contacts: “V ;)” — this phone is too dumb to support emojis. That’s probably for the best.

She opens a blank text. Stares at the blinking cursor. Blows out a breath, mutters some curses. Finally types out:

_Hi. Can we talk?_

And sends it before she can second guess herself, flinging the phone away from herself the instant it shows as sent. 

She paces. Villanelle could be sleeping right now, could have thrown away this phone ages ago, could be actively having sex with some random woman at this very moment, Eve is an idiot.

Her spiraling thoughts freeze and then scatter when the phone buzzes, and she scrambles for it. The small white screen indicates that she has one unread text message. 

_Depends. Are you planning to stab me again?_

She laughs despite herself, a relieved, strained sound. 

_I think I’ve gotten it all out of my system_

_I wouldn’t be so sure. The first stab is just the gateway drug_

_I’ve sworn off it. Cold turkey_

_Not off everything, I hope_

Her breath catches. She pauses for a moment, then types:

_I don’t think I could if I wanted to_

_I know the feeling_

_But if you want to talk, we can talk_

_No pressure. Only if you want to_

_I always want to talk to you. I’ve gotten into the habit, you see_

_And old habits die hard?_

_Something like that_

_You don’t seem surprised that I texted you_

_An old friend of mine, someone I care about very much, told me the other day to be_ _patient._ _I hate_

_being patient, but I thought I would try it for you_

_She looked a lot like you actually ;p_

Ugh, of course an older Eve from the future was involved. Eve would almost be annoyed if she wasn’t too busy feeling weirdly relieved at the reminder that, no matter what is happening in their present, they will always be part of each other’s past and future.

_She sounds like a wise lady_

_She is. We’ve had some disagreements, but nothing that could keep me away forever. She’s very difficult to forget_

...Huh. It may be a rather subtle reference to their fight (disagreement is another nice euphemism), but Eve will take it.

_Even if she’s not exactly like the old friend you’ve known?_

_I’m learning that she is singular and full of surprises. Worth knowing all on her own_

...Okay wow it should really take more for Eve to blush, this is pathetic. What should she say now? Should she call her? Arrange a time to actually talk? Ugh, texting Niko or any other guy she’s ever dated was never this difficult.

_Stop freaking out, Eve. Go to sleep. We will talk soon_

Eve can’t help but smile. 

_Should I be concerned you know I’m about to sleep?_

_Seriously? It’s called time zones. I can look them up_

_But also, I have a camera hidden in your bedroom_

Eve’s mouth drops, and she looks around wildly. She would not put this past Villanelle for a second.

_Just kidding ;D_

_...Or am I?_

Eve massages her temples. She asked for this. She literally asked for this.

_Okay, I am kidding. Talk soon!! xx_

And she knows she must be a masochist, or at least a massive sap, from the way her heart swells at just that “xx."

But maybe she doesn't mind so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, the beauty of communication...
> 
> Thanks for reading y'all. This time I mean it when I say this is the final planned addition for now -- I'm starting law school next week (yikes) so expect my free time to plummet, but also who knows maybe I'll become a prolific procrastination stress writer? (God I hope not)


End file.
